


The Stars Incline But Do Not Compel

by Suzie_Shooter



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Affairs, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, First Time, Foursome, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Sub!Athos, Swordage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 57,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill: AU where King Louis decrees that the Comte de la Fère and the Comte d'Artagnan are to marry. They engage Aramis and Porthos as members of the household, and both couples start to fall in love - but d'Artagnan also has eyes for Aramis, and Porthos is smitten with Athos, and things are bound to get worse before they get better. And that's all before the whole marriage is called into question when it transpires Athos' wife is not as dead as everyone thinks...</p><p>(full original prompt text in the notes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stars Incline But Do Not Compel

**Author's Note:**

> **Full prompt text:** "The Count de la Fère is a problem. After his wife killed his brother some years ago and he watched her hang for it, he's become an almost complete shut-in -- he's dismissed all his servants and, by all accounts, appears to be fully intent on drinking himself to death.
> 
> The Cardinal has been gently suggesting they just take the man's lands and title away from him, but King Louis has a better idea. The Count d'Artagnan has recently passed away, and while his only son has a good head on his shoulders, he's a bit too young and impetuous. He could use somebody older and wiser teaching him how to be a proper Count. Somebody like the Count de la Fère. D'Artagnan may just manage to drag de la Fère out of his depression, and if not, he might just learn something -- and if de la Fère drinks himself to death, d'Artagnan will inherit his title and lands, as well.
> 
> A marriage between two men is rare, but not unheard of, so the King decrees the Count de la Fère shall marry the new Count d'Artagnan. Everybody tries to gently hint to King Louis this is a terrible idea, but the King is firm in his decision, so the two are married.
> 
> The newly-joined household has no servants, so the first order of business is to hire some. De la Fère's only stipulation is they must be entirely new -- not before known to either him or d'Artagnan -- and there must be just the bare minimum. The bare minimum turns out to be two. Porthos has fought his way up from his humble beginnings by tooth and nail. Being hired as a bodyguard / factotum for the two counts may not be his ideal job, but it's perfectly respectable, and it's better than anything else he's been offered, so he jumps at the chance. Aramis had the misfortune of sleeping with the wrong woman and then beating her husband in a duel, so he very badly needs to get out of Paris, the sooner the better. When he was younger, he dreamed of being a priest, so he is very well educated -- the perfect man to be a tutor for the young count d'Artagnan.
> 
> I would love for this to end in OT4, but Athos / d'Artagnan (with a side of Porthos / Aramis?) would work as well."

"Comtesse." Richelieu offered his hand with a barely disguised sneer. The Comtesse de Larroque produced a curtsey that was a cat's whisker the safe side of openly contemptuous, and bobbed in the vague direction of the Cardinal's ring.

His Highness King Louis was rather more effusive, to the Cardinal's disapproval actually rising from the throne and greeting her with outstretched hands. "Ninon! It is a pleasure to see you here. You grace us too infrequently with your presence!"

"There are so many worthwhile demands on my time your Highness, alas, I would that I had more of it to waste." Ninon de Larroque delivered this with such a sweet smile Louis was charmed and oblivious to the implication. The Cardinal, judging by his grimace, was happily entirely aware of it.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of such a summons?" Ninon persisted, cutting across Louis' chatter. He looked briefly affronted, and waved at Richelieu to explain.

"We have a rather delicate problem," Richelieu said carefully, forcing a smile that sat uneasily on his lips. "Two, actually. The Comte de la Fère, and the Comte D'Artagnan. We were hoping you might be inclined to be persuaded, that is to say - "

"We'd like you to marry one of them," Louis interrupted, beaming. "Isn't that exciting?"

Ninon's expression suggested exactly what she thought of this. "And you presume I would accede to this ridiculous suggestion why, exactly?"

"A noble lady such as yourself Comtesse, would prove an invaluable asset in coming to his Majesty's assistance. While both men have considerable wealth and lands, as it stands, each in their own way are a slight embarrassment to the crown. La Fère has become something of a recluse, while D'Artagnan has inherited his title rather earlier than anyone expected. He is young, and rash, and could well use a steadying hand."

"I know the men of whom you speak. A drunkard and a child. And I know too, your game, Cardinal. You would love to see my wealth in the hands of a man you think you could manipulate. Well it won't work."

"Oh come Ninon," Louis wheedled, patting her hand. "A marriage made as an alliance can grow to be one of love in time! Just look at myself and the Queen."

Ninon and Richelieu exchanged the barest of glances. However much they hated and distrusted each other, the urge to recognise, however briefly, that at least neither of them was as naive as Louis was too strong to resist.

"There would be advantages for you in either match," Richelieu urged. 

"Not, I think, as many as in remaining unwed. Thank you all the same. But as a woman, the only way I may retain my own autonomy is to refrain from marriage. Perhaps," Ninon paused and smiled wickedly. "For a truly equal union, you should have them marry each other."

She took her leave without waiting for Louis to release her, and swept out of the hall in a rustle of embroidered skirts. Richelieu sighed. "Well that was a waste of time. I still think we should just quietly relieve la Fère of his lands, the man's so drunk most of the time he probably won't even notice. As for D’Artagnan - draft him into the army. With any luck, he'll pick a fight and be dead within a week - are you _listening_ to me your Majesty?"

Louis was staring into space with a beatific expression. "Cardinal - I have had an idea."

"Oh God," Richelieu muttered, then crossed himself repentantly. 

"We have here, do we not Cardinal, two people, one who needs coaxing out of himself, who needs bringing - along with his wealth - back to being a useful member of the court, and one who requires a steadying influence, say an older role model. Why _don't_ we simply marry them to each other?"

"Because they are two men, your Highness," Richelieu reminded him patiently, refraining from pointing out that technically, it had been Ninon's idea. "It would hardly be the done thing."

Louis waved a dismissive hand. "A political alliance need have nothing to do with the bedchamber. Besides, I'm the king. They will have to do as I tell them. Unite their lands, their purses, and bring both back to the service of the crown. I decree it shall be so." He sat back down firmly, his mouth pouting slightly in the familiar manner that warned the Cardinal it would be futile to argue. Nevertheless, he tried.

"Your Majesty - would it not be simpler in that case to just instruct the Comtesse to do as you decree?"

Louis looked startled and shifted nervously. "Instruct Ninon? Would _you_? No, this way is better," he nodded. "It resolves the problem of both of them. Besides, I rather like the idea." He beamed. "Perhaps it will start a trend."

"Or a Holy War, if the Vatican gets to hear of it," Richelieu muttered. He sighed inwardly, and hoped that Louis would have forgotten all about it by the morning. And if he hadn't - well. It would almost be worth the ensuing embarrassment to see what the men in question made of it. He hadn't met D'Artagnan since the young man assumed his title, but he remembered la Fère from years back. Before he'd eschewed the court for good after that awkward business with his wife, he'd been something of a thorn in the Cardinal's side. Yes, it would be pleasant indeed to see the expression on _his_ face.

\--

"The Comte de la Fère!" The page stood back hastily as the door was pushed wider and almost into his face by someone leaning heavily on the other side of it. The assembled nobility of the court turned as one to look at the man who'd entered. He was wearing a faded topcoat over breeches that had seen better days and boots that still bore mud from the road. His hat was crushed under his arm, his hair could have used a rigorous brushing and his passage towards the throne was less than steady.

"Your Majesty." To everyone's surprise, he performed a bow of precisely correct proportions.

"Gracious. I should fire your valet," Louis proclaimed, drawing his own immaculately polished shoes away, in case the Comte's scruffiness should prove in any way catching.

"I did, your Highness. Some years ago."

"Oh." Louis looked at the Cardinal and gave a moue of exaggerated alarm. "Well. We're hoping to do something about all that. Aren't we Armand?"

Richelieu bowed slightly. "Apparently it was too much to ask that you present yourself to your monarch in a state of sobriety," he said coldly to the new arrival.

The Comte looked at him, and for a second there was a dangerous glitter in his eyes. "I was required, against my stated and known preference, to drag myself to Paris and present myself before you. Which I have done. Nobody said anything about having to do it sober."

There was a tense silence, broken by Louis being too impatient to let a little thing like protocol get in the way of his announcement. 

"Will the Comte d'Artagnan also come before us." He beckoned imperiously and a young man stepped from the crowd, looking faintly terrified at being singled out but holding his head up and walking forward with an air of assumed confidence. 

The two rather different men now standing before the king eyed each other surreptitiously. They had not met before, or even particularly heard much about each other, and both were wondering what was coming.

Louis paused dramatically, and clasped his hands. "I have brought you here for some happy tidings. You - both - are to be married!"

There was a startled silence. 

D'Artagnan was the first to find his voice, overcoming his awe at being summoned before the King in a wave of indignance. "But - I can't get married yet! I'm too young!" 

"And I am disinclined," added la Fère, darkly.

Richelieu frowned. "You will accept the honour your King has bestowed upon you, with due reverence." The 'or else' remained unsaid, but the words hung heavily in the air.

"Well - who are we supposed to be marrying, anyway?" D'Artagnan asked, looking around him. It occurred to him that it was worth seeing the ladies in question before making any rash decisions.

"Ah, that is the beauty of the King's most wise decision. You will be marrying each other." said Richelieu with a certain vindictive pleasure.

La Fère and D’Artagnan looked at each other in surprise, each slightly relieved to find his own shock mirrored on the face of the other.

"Your Eminence, may I enquire, have you entirely taken leave of your senses?" drawled la Fère. 

Before anyone else could react to this blatant insult, the Cardinal's personal guard had stepped forward, drawing his sword.

"You will apologise to his Eminence or suffer the consequences," he announced self-importantly.

"I will not." La Fère frowned. "Do either." He drew his own sword, although to those watching it seemed something of an afterthought, and he got the pommel caught in the lace of his sleeve.

"You are a drunkard and a disgrace," sneered the guard. 

La Fère tilted his head consideringly. "And yet. I'm still going to beat you. How humiliating will that be?" 

Richelieu looked at the King with a look of urgent disapproval, but Louis clapped his hands happily and waved at them to continue, feeling this was all very entertaining.

The Comte bowed slightly to the King in recognition of his gesture of approval, and D'Artagnan gasped as the Red Guard took advantage of his distraction to launch an unsporting attack.

Somehow though, la Fère's sword was where his unguarded throat had been a second earlier, and steel clashed loudly as they met. The crowd hastily drew back to give them room and to avoid being hit by any blood that might be shed.

The two men circled each other warily before closing in a fierce whirl of blades. Despite the Comte's apparent level of inebriation, within a remarkably short time the guard was indeed lying at his mercy, sprawled on the floor with a boot on his neck.

"Yield," snarled the Comte. The guard threw his sword away and la Fère stepped back, already looking bored. He caught D'Artagnan staring at him with a look of naked admiration, and turned back to the king, frowning.

"Your Majesty - if I may protest - "

"No, you may not. My word is final, and I have spoken. If you refuse, both your lands will be forfeit," Louis added.

Richelieu smiled then for the first time, and the Comte de la Fère sheathed his sword in disgust, seeing the trap that had been laid for them. "So be it."

"You give up your lands?" Richelieu asked eagerly.

"No. I'll marry the boy. I assume I'm not required to produce an heir on him?"

The gathered nobility sniggered openly and Richelieu glared, temporarily wrongfooted. He hadn't expected the man to call his bluff. "What you do behind the privacy of your own walls I'll thank you not to bring to our attention," he snapped. 

D'Artagnan was by now staring in open mouthed surprise, as all eyes turned to him.

"Comte D’Artagnan, do you agree to this union?" Louis asked impatiently.

"Er - yes. I suppose so. I - don't really have a choice, do I?" he stuttered.

"Excellent, That's settled then. You will be married before the court the day after tomorrow," Louis proclaimed, causing an excited and scandalised stir amongst the gathered dignitaries.

Finding themselves abruptly dismissed and alone in the ante-room, the two men studied each other appraisingly. 

D'Artagnan, for all his reckless nature, would still never have dreamed or dared to face down one of the Cardinal's own guards before the King himself, and had rapidly revised his initially dismissive impression of the Comte. Upon closer inspection he was younger than D’Artagnan had thought, having perhaps only ten or twelve years on his own twenty, and under the rather unkempt hair and beard he had a noble bearing and eyes that were surprisingly clear given the man appeared to be genuinely half-drunk despite the early hour.

For his part, the Comte studied D'Artagnan, seeing an impetuous youth with an innocence he was doing his best to disguise under an assumed air of boldness. He sighed. "I knew I should have stayed at home. Now look what's happened."

"We really are to be married then? I didn't just dream all of that?" D’Artagnan was still looking dazed. "Look, what should I call you?" he asked hesitantly. "Comte de la Fère's a bit of a mouthful. Your name's Olivier, am I right?"

"No. As far as I'm concerned Olivier de la Fère died five years ago. Call me Athos. If you must call me anything," his companion added irritably. 

"Athos then. If we are to be married - "

Athos sighed. "Look, we do as they say and then we continue our own lives. It means neither of us can marry someone else, but I have no wish to, and it'll be sparing you the whole painful and hideous process, which you'll thank me for in the long run. It need affect neither of us beyond that."

The door to the court chamber opened to reveal Richelieu, who smiled the smile of a man adept at listening at keyholes.

"In case you were thinking of circumventing the King's wishes, you will reside together as a married couple should. You will attend court together. You will, in short, honour the state of matrimony his Highness has seen fit to bestow upon you. Or, your lands and titles revert to the crown. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," D'Artagnan muttered. Athos refused to dignify it with a reply at all.

Richelieu marched on out through the opposite door and they looked at each other.

"I'm sorry," Athos said gloomily, his stiff manner subsiding into a defeated looking slouch. "I'm not entirely sure what you've done to be lumbered with me, but whatever it was it probably didn’t deserve this."

"I've done nothing save outlive my father." D’Artagnan smiled at him commiseratingly. "Are you so awful a person then?" he enquired after a second, sounding intrigued.

"Worse, I imagine." Athos sighed. "God, I need a drink."

"Then let's go and find one," D’Artagnan offered. "Might as well get to know each other."

Athos frowned, but after a second's hesitation shrugged and gestured for him to lead the way out of the room. 

\--

Athos walked into the suite of rooms he'd been assigned to share with D'Artagnan whilst preparations were made for the wedding and came to an abrupt halt, surprised to find it crowded.

"Who are all these people?" he demanded irritably.

D'Artagnan gave him a look. "We'll need servants. You agreed. Last night."

"I hate servants. Was I drunk?" Athos asked suspiciously. 

"Are you ever sober?" D'Artagnan countered accusingly. "Go away, I'm interviewing."

Athos glared, at D’Artagnan and then at the room in general. "You." He pointed to a particularly over-dressed fop. "You." And at another. "You, you and you. Out."

Ignoring the indignant outcry, he crossed the room and poured himself a large drink from the decanter on the sideboard.

"What was wrong with them?" D’Artagnan demanded.

"None of them looked like they knew which end of a sword was which."

"Why would you need your servants to be able to fight?" asked D'Artagnan bemusedly. 

"Why wouldn't you?" 

"We need a cook. And a groom. And a valet. And a housekeeper. And an estate manager. And thanks to your ridiculous restrictions we need to find just two men capable of being all those things. And now you require them to be men-at-arms as well?" D'Artagnan threw his hands up. "You're impossible."

Athos gave a humourless smile. "See? It's almost like we're married already." He pointed at the nearest applicant. "You. Why do you want to work for us?"

The man bowed obsequiously. "I would consider it a great honour to serve your lordships. The chance to visit the royal court, the salons of Paris, it would be - "

Athos cut him off. "We won't be in Paris. We'll be in the bowels of the countryside. So you're no good. Next!"

The remaining men looked at each other nervously, unwilling to be the next to incur his wrath. 

"So come on, who wants to serve at Fort Recluse?" D’Artagnan called sarcastically, earning himself a reproving look from Athos.

A man cautiously put his hand up. "I - would be keen to see the back of Paris. Quite - rapidly, as it happens."

"Are you a fugitive?" Athos demanded.

"No. I - just happen to have had a minor disagreement. With - ah - somebody's husband. There was a small matter of a duel, and things have become rather - pressing." 

Athos stared at him, apparently disapprovingly, although there was a tinge of amusement in his glance. "Did you win?" 

"Of course I won!" the man declared affrontedly. "That was the problem," he added, wincing.

"Then, you're hired. You," Athos pointed at the next in line, a tall, dark man who looked a little nervous despite being significantly larger than everyone else in the room. "Why do you want the job?"

The man twisted his hat round in his hands, and D'Artagnan noticed several of the other applicants were giving him dirty looks. "I'm looking for a position where I can better myself," he said with dignity. "An opportunity to - become more than I am now."

"And what are you now, exactly?" Athos enquired. 

"Probably a thief and a murderer," came a voice from the knot of prospective applicants. "Given he's from the Court of Miracles. Send him back to the gutter where he belongs," the voice added, either oblivious to the growing look of distaste on Athos' face or reading it as support for his words. "He's got no right to be here with the likes of us."

"Then, let me assist you out to where the air is fresher," Athos declared, and taking the man who'd spoken by the collar of his coat, threw the window wide open and heaved the man bodily out of it.

A second or so later there was a splash. D'Artagnan ran to the sill and looked out, turning back to the room with a relieved expression. "God, I thought you'd killed him. Good thing you knew there was a fountain down there."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Was there? Oh well." Ignoring D'Artagnan's look of exasperation, he turned to the man he'd been speaking to previously, who was now watching him with a broad grin.

"So. Are you?" Athos asked mildly. "A thief and a murderer, I mean?"

"If I've ever stolen, it was only to put food in my belly. And if I've ever killed, it was only in self defence," the man said slowly, aware his words would probably put him out of the running, but also sensing that to lie would be a mistake.

"Good enough. You're hired." Athos drained his glass and drifted back towards the decanter as the room exploded in uproar behind him.

"He'll kill you in your bed," somebody called, and Athos turned to look at them impassively. 

"He can try. The positions are filled, get out, the lot of you," he declared, suddenly bored with the whole process.

When everyone else had gone, the two selected men looked at each other and their new masters speculatively.

"Well. I'm Aramis," said the first man cheerfully to the room in general as no-one had bothered asking.

"And I'm Porthos," said the second, still not quite able to believe his luck.

Athos waved his glass in vague salute. "My name is Athos, this is D’Artagnan. We are, regrettably, to be married in the morning. Does this perturb you?"

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look. They'd each heard something of the rumours, but it was still a surprise to have it confirmed, particularly having now met the men in question.

"I've heard stranger things," shrugged Porthos philosophically.

"Not a problem," said Aramis.

"Good. That's settled then." Athos stared into his empty glass and sighed. "Anyone want a drink?"

"It's too early," D'Artagnan said disapprovingly. 

"Only for those of us under the age of twelve," Athos retorted, and gestured towards the others with the decanter. "Anyone?"

"Oh. Well, don't mind if I do," said Aramis, realising with some surprise that the offer extended to himself and Porthos.

Athos nodded and poured him out a generous measure, then doing the same for Porthos.

D'Artagnan, still smarting from Athos' crack about his age, had his hands on his hips. "Encouraging the staff to drink your brandy is hardly the best foot to start off on," he declared.

"Technically it's not mine, it's the King's," said Athos. "Would you deny your men the chance to make a royal toast?" 

Aramis cleared his throat and raised his glass. "If I may be so bold - to your impending union?"

Athos made a face. "Oh God, no. Pick something better."

Porthos raised his glass too. "To his Majesty's cellar?" he suggested. 

"Now! I'll drink to that," Athos agreed, and promptly did so with enthusiasm.

\--

"Where is he?" D'Artagnan sighed, unwilling to sound like he cared, but needing reassurance. When he'd ventured from his chamber the next morning, it was to find Athos had already risen and departed, and neither Aramis nor Porthos knew where he'd gone.

D'Artagnan stared at himself in the full length mirror, while Aramis brushed down his clothing. He was wearing a long, midnight blue overcoat over pristine, lace trimmed linens, polished riding boots and black breeches, carefully pressed. He looked smarter than he could ever remember, but the thought of having to go through with this ridiculous ceremony was making him nervous. He'd at least imagined he'd be walking in at Athos' side. The man didn’t appear to care what anyone thought of him, and it was strangely comforting.

"What if he doesn't turn up?" D'Artagnan wondered aloud.

"He will," Aramis murmured.

"How could he resist?" Porthos grinned, clapping D'Artagnan on the shoulder.

D’Artagnan laughed gratefully. So far they had proved good tempered and reassuring companions, and he was glad now they were both with him. The previous afternoon he had ordered new outfits for them both and consequently they were also dressed in elegant finery, of more subdued greys and blues than D’Artagnan’s wedding outfit, but well tailored and suitable for the court.

An hour later the three of them entered the echoing expanse of the palace church, and stopped a short distance back from the party containing the King and Cardinal. There was still no sign of Athos, and D’Artagnan was facing the uncomfortable fact that it would be more humiliating to be jilted than to be married to a man he'd only just met.

"What if he doesn’t come?" D'Artagnan hissed to Aramis. "They'll take my lands and I'll be destitute."

"We could always sign up for the army," Aramis suggested thoughtfully. "Maybe we could all apply to be Musketeers."

Across the nave, three King's Musketeers stood protecting the royal personage, together with their rather stern looking captain, a man who kept shooting incredulous glances at the Cardinal, who was steadfastly ignoring him.

At that moment the far doors were pushed open and a man entered. It genuinely took D’Artagnan a second to recognise Athos. He was dressed in a coat of gold brocade decorated with silver fleur de lys, his hair and beard had been neatly trimmed, and he was, apparently, entirely sober.

"Scrubs up well," Aramis murmured admiringly, exchanging an amused look with Porthos when it appeared D’Artagnan had been rendered momentarily speechless.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," D'Artagnan sighed in open relief as Athos came over to stand with them.

"And let the Cardinal win?" Athos shook his head slightly. "What do you say we beat them at their own game?" he murmured.

D’Artagnan raised his hand and Athos took it ceremonially. He could feel the fast pulse in D’Artagnan’s fingers, and squeezed his hand comfortingly. Outwardly the boy seemed brash and confident, but the speed of his heartbeat suggested underneath it all he was scared to hell.

D’Artagnan returned the pressure of his fingers gratefully. Together they walked forward to the Cardinal, watched by the eyes of the favoured courtiers Louis had selected to witness the event.

Richelieu watched them approach sourly. He hadn't actually expected things to progress this far, but had underestimated the extent to which D'Artagnan was too young to feel able to defy the King, and la Fère was past caring what happened to him.

And now he - he! - was expected to perform the marriage ceremony for them. He'd be a laughing stock if this got out. The few invited guests had all been sworn to secrecy, which in Richelieu's mind pretty much guaranteed it would be all over Paris within the hour.

He scowled down at the two men before him, and heard Louis clear his throat meaningfully.

"This is a happy event, Cardinal," Louis called. "We should rejoice, should we not?"

With some effort Richelieu modified his expression to a smile, which, if anything, produced a more alarming effect.

Looking calmly back at him, Athos reflected that while he'd once resolved never to marry again, this whole thing was farcical enough to be oddly pleasing. It was a mockery of a ceremony he'd once held sacred, and it was that that allowed him to go through with it. That, and the fact that the Cardinal was clearly severely annoyed by the whole thing. 

Athos held no illusions that his own future held anything other than drinking himself into an early grave. With no heir, his lands and coffers would have reverted to the crown; now they would pass to D'Artagnan. Athos was pleased, the lad seemed nice enough, and no doubt his own death would occur soon enough for D'Artagnan to remarry if he wished, while he still had his youth and his looks. 

With these grim thoughts in his head, Athos faced the Cardinal with a bleak smile.

On his right, D'Artagnan too was smiling. His father's last advice to him had been to go to Paris and make a name for himself, and here he was at the tender age of twenty, standing before King and Cardinal. Infamous was perhaps not quite the same thing as famous, but he'd take what he could get. When his father had died, he'd gone a little off the rails. With a fortune to play with and no steadying hand, he'd felt himself spiralling into a descent he couldn't pull himself out of. Women, drinking, duels - he'd almost wanted someone to tell him to stop, but nobody had dared.

But now Athos' hand was warm and firm in his, and D'Artagnan sensed that while Athos might be disinterested enough to let him do as he pleased, he would still be someone whom D’Artagnan could turn to for advice and experience. So he straightened his back, and smiled, and the ceremony progressed without interruption.

\--

Afterwards, there was feasting and drinking that carried on into the night. Aramis and Porthos agreed that regardless of what lay ahead, for now at least they appeared to have fallen on their feet. 

D'Artagnan, under the guise of being a good host, had taken it upon himself to dance with every woman in the room in turn. In contrast, Athos had taken himself off to a corner of the room with several bottles of wine and was working his way through them with as much diligence as D’Artagnan was paying to the guests.

Porthos wandered over every now and then to see if he needed anything. The match between the two men had obviously been political, but as the day had worn on Athos had gone from appearing almost cheerful to steadily more depressed and withdrawn. Porthos wondered if it was the wine, or something else bothering him.

As he reached Athos' table, the Cardinal swept past on his way out of the room, having found the earliest possible excuse to depart. He spared Athos a contemptuous glance, and smirked.

"Let us hope this union is more successful than your last one, my dear Comte."

Porthos frowned, watching him leave. "What did he mean by that?" he asked Athos curiously.

"None of your damn business!" Athos snarled angrily.

Porthos' expression went blank, and he bowed his head. "Sorry sir."

Athos checked himself, and groaned. "Don't do that."

"Do what sir?"

"That! I'm paying you to do an honest job, not to bow and scrape. If you feel I've insulted you at least do me the courtesy of - I don't know. Punching me or something. Don't let me get away with being a bastard."

Porthos smiled despite himself. "Alright," he said. He took in Athos' strained and rather miserable expression and his mood softened a little. "Are you okay?"

Athos sighed. "I thought I could get through this," he murmured, mostly to himself. "But there are some memories that - apparently you can't lock away forever." He smiled tightly, and raised his glass. "But fortunately you can blot them out."

\--

By the end of the night when they came to leave, Athos was sliding off his chair, and Porthos tucked an arm under his shoulders and heaved him up.

"Good luck for the wedding night with _that_ ," called a passing courtier mockingly to D'Artagnan, nodding at the half-comatose Athos.

The insult wasn't lost on either of them, and Athos tried to change direction, fumbling for the sword he wasn't wearing. "Let me go," he muttered thickly. "I need to kill him."

"No you don't," Porthos grinned, propelling him in the other direction.

"I order you to let me go!"

"That's nice." Porthos patted him. "I'm not though."

Athos groaned and subsided, resting his head on Porthos' shoulder in tired defeat. Porthos patted him again, and smirked at Aramis who'd been watching all this with amusement.

"You seem to have him well trained already," Aramis murmured.

"You leave him alone," Porthos smiled. "He's a good man."

"I like him, but - he's a drunk."

"He gave me the benefit of the doubt," Porthos said quietly. "Least I can do is return it."

"True," Aramis smiled peaceably. "True."

\--

"So," Aramis murmured when they'd deposited Athos and D'Artagnan in their respective chambers and settled themselves in the connecting anteroom with a bottle of fine claret liberated from the wedding table. "Tell me about Porthos. What's your story?"

Porthos looked sideways at him a little suspiciously until he was satisfied Aramis was just making conversation. He shrugged. "It's hardly worth telling."

"Everyone's story is worth telling." Aramis poured the wine and handed him a glass. "Forgive me, I don’t mean to pry. But it seems we shall be living together for the foreseeable future and I confess to simple curiosity."

"You mean what's a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?" Porthos asked with a sudden grin, and Aramis gave a bark of laughter that he quickly smothered with a guilty look at the bedroom doors.

"Well - in a manner of speaking," he said, relieved that Porthos hadn't thought him being censorious of his presence in the way their rival applicants had. 

Porthos sighed, settling back with his drink and deciding he might as well confide in Aramis. He wasn't ashamed of his past, but it was hardly a glorious one.

"You already know I grew up in the Court of Miracles I guess. Been fending for myself since the age of five - or thereabouts," he said quietly. "Did what I had to, to survive. I was the finest pickpocket they had," he said with a smile that wavered slightly as he realised it wasn't really something to be proud of. But Aramis smiled back and nodded for him to continue.

"Even so, there were plenty of nights I went to bed hungry. I was desperate to get out. I knew there had to be something better out there, you know?" He was mostly talking to himself now, but Aramis listened intently, captivated and sympathetic but careful not to let Porthos think he was offering pity.

"I went to sea for a bit. Suited me well enough, but there was no real future in it."

"I'd have thought there were opportunities for advancement, for a capable man?" Aramis suggested.

Porthos flushed. "Yeah, well. To go any further you needed to be able to - " he took a drink to mask his embarrassment. "Read and stuff."

"You can't?" Aramis tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. Porthos shot him a sharp look, then sighed.

"Nah. Tried to pick it up, but - it needs a teacher really, and I could hardly afford that. I can sign my name," he added quickly, not wanting Aramis to think he was a complete fool.

"Well. That's a start." Aramis hesitated, not wanting his words to sound patronising. "I - could teach you. If you wanted?"

"Really?" Porthos looked suspicious again, and Aramis realised there were probably precious few people that had offered him something without wanting something in return.

"Sure. I don't imagine there'll be much in the way of evening entertainments where we're going. It'll pass the time." He smiled. "Think of it as pick pocketing my head, if you like."

Porthos laughed, then nodded thoughtfully. "So tell me about you."

"Oh, not much to tell. Small town, average upbringing. I was - going to be a priest."

"A priest?" Porthos grinned. He'd only known Aramis for two days, but that had been time enough to notice his roving eye.

Aramis conceded the point with a smile. "Turned out I loved the secular life rather too much. I turned my hand to soldiering for a while, but - lately I’ve just been drifting. Looking for something, without really knowing what it is."

"You think this could be it?"

"Who knows." Aramis laughed, and poured more wine into both their glasses. "What do you make of them?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the closed doors.

Porthos smirked. "The nobility have always been a bit odd if you ask me. Athos seems alright. Straightforward, anyway. D'Artagnan - bit fond of exerting his authority."

"He's young. Probably just nervous." Aramis smiled. "And we _are_ in service now. You have to expect that."

Porthos muttered something that might have been agreement, and might not have been.

Just then the door to D'Artagnan's room opened and they both stiffened, unsure whether they were considered still on duty and whether D'Artagnan would take exception to their having purloined a bottle of wine technically meant for the quality.

D'Artagnan though hesitated on the threshold, looking more unsure of himself than they'd yet seen him. His shirt was half open and his coat discarded, but he still had his boots on, and looked a little lost.

"I heard you talking," he said.

"Sorry." Aramis rose and offered him a half-bow. "We didn't mean to disturb you."

"No - no, I just - do you mind if I join you?"

"Oh. No, of course not." Aramis waved him to a chair, and poured him some of the wine. "Everything alright?"

D'Artagnan coloured. "I can't get my boots off," he confessed.

Aramis tutted. "Sorry. I should have thought." He sank to his knees on the carpet and began unlacing the tight leather with nimble fingers. "I confess I've not much practice at being in this kind of service," he said.

D'Artagnan smiled down at him tiredly. "And I've not much practice at being an employer," he admitted. "You'll have to tell me if I'm doing it wrong."

Aramis eased the first boot off and started on the lacings of the second, while D'Artagnan wriggled his toes in relief.

"I suppose we can all learn together," D'Artagnan mused. He cast a look at Athos' door. "Maybe we should invite him to join us?" he ventured.

"He's asleep," Porthos said. "Was practically out before I could get him down on the bed."

"Oh." D'Artagnan fiddled with the stem of his wineglass. 

Aramis finally succeeded in prising the other boot off his right foot with a sudden jolt and went sprawling backwards on the carpet in the process. It raised a smile from D’Artagnan, which had been entirely why he'd done it, and Aramis retook his seat with a small sense of satisfaction.

"Everything alright?" Aramis prompted, when D'Artagnan had sat in preoccupied silence for several minutes. 

"Mmmn." D'Artagnan sighed. "I suppose this just isn't quite how I pictured my wedding night, if I'm honest."

"No. I suppose not." Aramis wondered what to say. He was cross with Athos for leaving D'Artagnan alone, and looked at Porthos for assistance. 'Think of something,' he mouthed, while D'Artagnan was staring into his glass.

Porthos shrugged, and looked round for inspiration, patting his pockets vaguely. Then he smiled, and nudged D'Artagnan with his foot, making him look up. 

"How about a nice game of cards?"

\--

It was nearing evening two days after the wedding when they finally reached the la Fère estate, and the four men reined in their horses to look down at the manor house. They were on a rise about half a mile distant, the carriage drive stretching out before them, pitted and overgrown with weeds. 

Despite the evident lack of any recent care or maintenance, the house itself was imposing, and Aramis gave a low whistle. 

D'Artagnan, too, was taken aback. His own country house was considerably more modest; his family had spent most of their time in Paris. "It's huge," he said, sounding genuinely impressed.

"Bet you say that to all the boys," Aramis couldn't help putting in, and Porthos snorted with laughter. Even Athos' lips twitched a little, although he turned his head away to hide it.

"I'm afraid after what you've been used to it will be a sore disappointment," Athos warned. "Half the rooms haven't been touched in years."

"Have you really been living here all alone?" D'Artagnan asked as they walked the horses slowly on down the track.

"Yes."

"Weren't you lonely?" D'Artagnan persisted, not in the least put off by what was clearly meant to be a discouraging answer. He was a social animal at heart and the idea of being shut up alone here for years on end made him shiver.

Athos just gave him a look and nudged his horse on until he was riding a little ahead of them. D'Artagnan sighed and looked to the others for support. Aramis shrugged. 

"Rather him than me."

"Do you think there'll be any food?" Porthos wondered. "For the horses," he added quickly, when they both laughed.

"Must be some," Aramis mused. "He's presumably been keeping his own here. Let's find out." And he spurred his horse on until he'd overtaken Athos, cantering recklessly down the uneven path towards the house. D'Artagnan and Porthos looked at each other and immediately gave chase, whooping and laughing as they raced over the rough ground.

Aramis arrived first, having had too much of a head start, with D'Artagnan hard on his heels and Porthos not far behind. They clattered into the yard, looking up at the house with interest. Most of the windows were shuttered, and there were weeds growing up through the flagstones.

Porthos glanced back up the track to where Athos was still riding slowly towards them, not having dignified their mad moment by joining in. "Do you think we've pissed him off?" he wondered.

D'Artagnan dismounted. "I figure whatever we do is probably going to piss him off, so we might as well do as we like," he announced, although he was careful to check Athos was still out of earshot before he said it.

When Athos arrived, he gave them a faintly disapproving look but said nothing, leading them instead round the side of the house to the stables. 

Here, at least, the buildings were in good repair, and there was plenty of feed and straw and water on hand for all four horses. 

"Looks like he takes better care of his horse than himself," Aramis murmured, nudging Porthos.

"Not a bad thing," Porthos pointed out. "I'd rather work for a man who did that than the other way around."

D'Artagnan, keen to explore, had left his horse and moved over to the door, assuming without thinking about it that Porthos or Aramis would take care of it for him. Seeing Athos rubbing down his own mount though, he hesitated, suddenly conscious of looking like a spoiled brat.

Pretending he'd merely stepped across for some air, he returned to his horse and set about removing the tack.

"I can do that, if you'd rather?" Porthos offered.

"No, no, it's fine," D’Artagnan said hastily. "I've got it." He staggered back with the saddle in his arms, heaving it onto the rack with some relief. If he'd been at home with his own servants he'd have left them to it without a second thought. He'd taken a lot for granted, he realised, wondering what opinion the staff at home had of him, and why it suddenly mattered terribly that Aramis and Porthos should not think badly of him. Not to mention Athos. 

D'Artagnan glanced over at him, wondering what he made of this invasion of his home. Athos hadn't asked for this any more than he had, D'Artagnan realised, and it had been at D’Artagnan’s insistence they engage some staff. Although he was glad, now, that he'd held to his request. To have arrived here with only the taciturn Athos for company would have been strange in the extreme.

With the horses seen to, Athos lead them back to the main door to the house and let them in. The last of the evening sun poured into the hall, dust motes sparkling everywhere in the light.

They walked in slowly, footsteps echoing on the tiles. A grand staircase swept upwards, and doors stretched away to either side, giving the impression of a vast emptiness. Here and there items of furniture were shrouded in dust sheets, and a once-impressive chandelier was festooned with cobwebs.

Athos had pushed open a nearby door and disappeared through it. The others followed, finding themselves in what had presumably once been a dining room judging by the fact the only furniture was an enormous table. They discovered too what had drawn Athos in here - crates of wine stacked against one wall.

Athos pulled out a bottle at random and uncorked it, taking a drink directly from the neck and then looking surprised when they all stared at him. 

"What? You can help yourselves. There's plenty." He put the bottle down on the table and crossed to the window, pushing back the shutters. The colours of the sunset washed across the room, making it feel a friendlier place, but also picking out the holes in the threadbare carpet and the peeling wallpaper.

D'Artagnan looked around, wrinkling his nose. "Do you mind if we - brighten the place up a little?" he asked tentatively, unsure if Athos would object.

Athos stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "My rooms are on the first floor. Stay out of those, otherwise you may do as you wish." 

He paused, as another thought occurred. "Oh. And there is a room down there, the furthest in the wing. You are under no circumstances to enter it, any of you, do I make myself clear?" 

D'Artagnan nodded, startled by his suddenly stern tone. He looked at the others to gauge their reaction, finding them looking just as taken aback.

Catching his eye, Aramis winked. "I think I've heard this tale," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "It'll be full of the heads of his ex-wives."

At this, Athos gave him a look of such venom that Aramis actually took a step back. Athos strode out of the room without a word, only to march back in a second later, snatch the bottle of wine from the table and march out again.

There was an awkward silence. 

"I was only joking," Aramis said uncertainly. "Here, you don't think he's really got bodies in there do you?"

"I think we'd be better off not interfering," growled Porthos. "You've got the whole house to play with. Let's leave it alone, eh?"

\--

The three of them explored, coughing on the clouds of dust they disturbed. Athos clearly hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said much of it hadn't been touched in years. 

Room opened onto room in an endless procession of dust sheets and cobwebs, their passage remarked only by the distant skitter of mice and the silent eyes of the portraits lining the walls.

D'Artagnan chose for himself a suite of rooms on the first floor overlooking the gardens to the rear, at the opposite end of the house from Athos' apartments. In the fading light, Aramis and Porthos helped him sweep out the worst of the dust, sprinkling the floor with water to keep it from rising up in choking clouds. 

While Athos kept himself firmly out of sight, Aramis emerged at one point to discover a pile of fresh linen had been dumped at the top of the staircase.

He carried the prize back to D'Artagnan who was all for rushing to thank Athos immediately. The others restrained him.

"If he wanted our company, he'd have brought it in himself," Porthos advised. 

Aramis agreed. "Let him come round in his own time. At least now we can make up the bed."

Downstairs, Aramis and Porthos decided to take over the rooms behind the kitchen, once home to a host of staff, now abandoned and empty. But they were self contained, and cosy in their own way, and both agreed they would be perfectly happy there, despite D'Artagnan's assurance they were welcome to take bedrooms upstairs.

"I mean - it's not as if there's a shortage of them," he said, as they sat round the table in the kitchen. Aramis had got a fire going in the range and the room was warm with the glow of lamplight.

"Wouldn't feel right," Porthos said, shaking his head.

"Porthos is right," Aramis agreed, stretching tiredly. "We'll do well enough down here."

"Well. If you're sure." D’Artagnan mopped up the last of the pottage Aramis had made and licked his fingers. To everyone's relief there had been a reasonably stocked store cupboard, and the kitchen itself had been relatively clean. Athos may have been living frugally, but he clearly hadn't been starving himself, and the three men were heartily grateful.

Of Athos himself there had been no sign, although distant footsteps on the stairs at one point suggested he'd emerged in search of another bottle while they were safely engaged with their supper.

Worn out from the long ride and the stress of the last few days, D'Artagnan took himself up to bed at an early hour. The distance to his new room seemed a lot further than it had in company and in daylight, and he tried very hard not to jump at the wavering shadows thrown by his lamp.

He wished fervently he'd asked Aramis or Porthos to come up with him, even if they thought him spoilt and superior for requiring someone to help him undress. It would be preferable to them thinking him scared.

D'Artagnan shut the door firmly behind him, wishing too late that he'd brought more candles up with him. Outside, a half moon threw a silvery light between the mullions of the window, making patterns on the floor. An owl screeched somewhere close at hand, and D'Artagnan started violently. He sank to the bed, clutching his heart and laughing at himself.

"Get a grip," he muttered. "You're a grown man. A married man," he added, flopping back against the covers and laughing without amusement. He was beginning to think Athos drank to stop his own house scaring the shit out of him.

D'Artagnan undressed and climbed into the big bed, hugging himself for warmth and trying not to wish too hard that he was still downstairs in the welcoming kitchen, or even somewhere drinking silently with Athos. He didn't let himself think at all about his bed at home. He'd spent precious little time in it recently anyway. Perhaps tomorrow he could send for his things, D’Artagnan thought. He would need his clothes and papers in any case, and there would need to be arrangements made for running his own estate in his absence.

Dwelling on these practical matters soon gave him something more tangible to worry about than creepy shadows in a strange room, and he fell asleep still frowning.

Below, Aramis and Porthos were also getting ready for bed, considerably more cheerfully, having each other to talk to. They'd taken a room each leading off the back of the kitchen, and called back and forth to each other as they settled in. 

"Not so bad, is it?" Aramis said, appearing in the doorway and smiling at Porthos, who was sitting on the bed pulling his boots off.

Porthos nodded slowly, his face grave, and for a moment Aramis was worried that he was upset. 

"Everything alright?"

"Yes." Porthos swallowed, looking up and smiling slightly at seeing the concern on Aramis' face. "More than alright. I've - not often had a space of my own," he explained, then gave a sheepish laugh. "Hell, I've lived in houses smaller than this room."

Aramis nodded with quiet understanding, returning his smile. "Well. You just yell if you get lonely." 

\--

The next morning, D'Artagnan was surprised to come down to breakfast and find Athos already seated in the kitchen, discussing estate management with Aramis. 

Seemingly recovered from the previous day's fit of temper, Athos even offered D'Artagnan an apologetic smile as he took a seat.

"Sleep well?"

"Er. Yes. Thank you." D'Artagnan could hardly cover his astonishment at the change in demeanour, but Athos pretended not to notice.

"I suspect I have been guilty of being a bad host," Athos murmured. "Forgive me. The stars appear to have decreed that this is your home now too, so please, I would plead that you treat it as such."

D'Artagnan smiled. "The King had more to do with it than the heavens, I think. But thank you. This - can't be easy for you."

Athos gave a slight shrug. "Some would say a life that is not tested is no life at all."

"Some would say the King doesn't know his arse from his elbow," Porthos muttered, kneeling before the ovens and poking the fire within with a vigorous encouragement. He had a flour-dusted scarf wrapped tightly around his head, and the room smelled mouth-wateringly of fresh bread.

Athos leaned back in his chair, and pursed his lips. " _Some_ would say that's tantamount to treason." He half-smiled. "Although if those rolls taste as good as they smell I'm minded to forgive you."

Porthos smirked. "I do like a man who can be bribed with his stomach."

On the table a number of ledgers were stacked, and Aramis was resting his hand on them thoughtfully.

"Are you sure you don't mind me taking this on?" he asked Athos, sounding to D'Artagnan like he'd asked this already.

"Be my guest," Athos said. "You seem an educated man, and I've taken little enough interest in running things these past few years that the tenants will either welcome you with a thousand demands, or resent the intrusion and come at you with pitchforks. Either way it's certain to be a mixed blessing." He gestured at D'Artagnan with his cup. "You'd better teach the finer points of it to D'Artagnan here too. He'll need to be able to run things when I'm gone."

"Gone?" asked D’Artagnan, startled. 

"You will, after all, be my heir," Athos clarified.

"You talk as if you were dying," said D'Artagnan uncomfortably.

Athos sighed pensively. "We're _all_ dying." 

Porthos banged a tray on the table before him. "Gloomy bastards don't get fresh bread," he announced.

Athos tilted his head up to look at him, faintly amused. "I'm going to live to regret telling you not to take any crap from me, aren't I?"

"Probably," Porthos agreed, and grinned. 

\--

The next few days were spent cleaning, scrubbing, dusting and generally airing a number of rooms to an acceptable standard for use, or at least one that didn't make Aramis sneeze every time he entered it. 

D'Artagnan had never performed quite as much menial work in his life, but perversely he found he was quite enjoying it. It took his mind off things, and it helped to be able to see the once-grand rooms slowly emerging from years of neglect. Plus, Porthos and Aramis were entertaining work mates and he had learnt a number of entirely inappropriate songs stemming from both navy and army, several of which had been enough to make him blush.

They'd settled on reclaiming a few of the rooms leading from the main hall rather than attempting to clean the whole house, on the grounds there'd be less upkeep afterwards, and a handful of rooms would be entirely sufficient for their needs. Gradually, the dining room, drawing room, study, breakfast room and one of the reception rooms were cleaned and filled with pieces of furniture scavenged from rooms all over the house. 

D'Artagnan's bedroom and adjoining rooms, and the warren of rooms behind the kitchen already jealously occupied by Aramis and Porthos were also subjected to the spring clean, and the numerous sorties to find suitable furnishings meant D'Artagnan gradually lost his fear of the old creaking house after dark.

During this time Athos mostly stayed out of their way, neither offering to help, nor interfering. He would occasionally appear for meals, or to go over points of contracts and accounts of the estate with Aramis, but otherwise showed no interest in their activities.

The renovations had also shown up in stark relief the patches of damp, of peeling paper and rat-chewed skirtings that were beyond the remedy of simple scrubbing and whitewash, and so, taking Athos at his word that he could do as he liked, D'Artagnan commissioned a number of decorators to descend on the manor from Paris and return the rooms to their former glory with fresh paints, fashionably painted wallpapers and intricately woven carpets.

Athos, horrified at this invasion of strangers, shut himself in his rooms with several crates of wine and refused to come out until they'd gone, several days later.

It was in the peaceful lull following their departure, that D'Artagnan decided the rooms were ready for unveiling and risked inviting Athos down to inspect their work.

While they waited for him to show up, D'Artagnan found himself pacing nervously to and fro in the dining room. On his fifth circuit of the room, Aramis reached out a hand to stop him.

"You're going to wear out the new carpet at this rate. And you're making me dizzy. What's the matter?"

D'Artagnan looked at him anxiously. "What if he doesn't like it?"

"What's not to like?"

"Well - it's just - this is his home. And we're - _I'm_ \- interfering with it. Changing it."

"He said you could."

"I know. I just - I don't want to - upset him, you know?" D'Artagnan looked so worried that Aramis was about to put an arm around him when Athos chose that moment to appear in the doorway.

"So. What do you think?" asked D'Artagnan anxiously. Aramis folded his arms, ready to come to his defence if he thought Athos was unduly harsh in his response.

But Athos was looking around with a look of faint surprise. "I'd forgotten," he said, half under his breath. He came further in, trailing his fingers along the now magnificently polished table, and wondering vaguely where they'd managed to gather a set of matching chairs, given that he was fairly certain he'd used at least two of them for firewood.

He suddenly noticed how nervously everyone was watching him, D'Artagnan most of all. 

"You've performed miracles," he said softly, and D'Artagnan relaxed.

"You like it?" 

"Of course." Athos reached out and clasped his shoulder. "You've worked so hard. It looks amazing." 

"Maybe next time you could lend a hand," Porthos suggested pointedly.

Aramis and D'Artagnan looked at him in alarm, but Athos conceded the jibe with a tilt of the head.

"Point taken. I apologise."

"You don't have to. It's your house. Thank you for letting us do it at all. " D'Artagnan seized his hand and smiled at him with bright-eyed relief. "Come and see the rest."

"It's your house too," Athos protested, but he let himself be pulled along with good humour as D'Artagnan insisted on giving him an immediate tour of all that they'd done.

\--

All the comings and goings at the house had not gone unnoticed, and not all eyes that viewed the new occupants with interest were benign.

So it was that one morning soon after, they were awoken by a frantic neighing and stamping of hooves from the stable yard, the sound of splintering wood and raised men's voices.

"What's going on?" Aramis demanded, appearing in the doorway to his room clutching a sheet around him.

"Horse thieves!" Porthos cried, running past in boots and breeches and nothing else.

He dashed outside and round the corner of the house towards the stables, snatching up a wooden spar that was leaning against the wall as he went. 

The sight that met him in the yard made him snarl. A group of strange men had lead their four horses out of the stable and were attempting to tie them together in line. The horses, disturbed and skittish, had clearly been making this as difficult as possible and one man was already limping. 

The arrival of a furious semi-naked man wielding a wooden pole took them by surprise and they scattered in alarm. Two drew pistols, but Porthos launched himself at them with such vigour and fury only one managed to get a shot off, and that went wide.

Porthos set about him with the pole, whirling it round his head and laying into exposed arms and legs and heads with enthusiasm. When it was wrested from his grip by sheer weight of numbers he reverted to punching, kicking and generally employing every dirty trick he could think of.

The leader of the thieves staggered back under the weight of Porthos' blows and yelled at one of the men safely outside his reach.

"Shoot him damn you!"

Porthos spun round, knowing he was too late to know which way to jump as he saw the pistol raised across the stable yard - and then it was dropped again with a yowl of pain as a sword flashed down and sliced open the man's forearm.

Athos, having disarmed the would-be assassin, drew his sword back then shrugged and punched him in the face with the hilt. Two more men threw themselves at him, and he met the attack with speed and determination. Porthos grinned savagely and rejoined the fight with a renewed will, driving the thieves back towards the gate, bleeding, bruised and swearing.

Having regained their own horses, they pulled up the man who'd been hit by Athos and was still staggering around in a daze, and fled the yard.

Porthos and Athos looked at each other, panting for breath.

"Should we chase them?" Porthos asked.

Athos shook his head. "Let them go. I imagine they won’t be back. Let them tell their friends robbing us is a bad idea."

Porthos grinned, then frowned in concern. Athos was wearing a loose white shirt, tucked into his breeches but unlaced, and one of his sleeves was stained with blood.

"You're hurt."

Athos frowned with surprise, poking at his arm experimentally before shaking his head. "It's not mine."

Porthos looked relieved. "Thanks for the help, by the way."

"Well. I'd hate to be accused of not pulling my weight," Athos murmured, giving him an amused look. "Thank _you_ , for putting up such a spirited defence. There was a trick or two you used there I should be pleased to learn myself."

Porthos laughed. "With sword skills like yours, you hardly need streetfighting."

"Swordsmanship is only any good as long as you have a sword," Athos pointed out.

"True. Alright. I'll teach you. On one condition."

"Which is?"

"You teach me fencing."

Athos nodded, intrigued. "Very well. An exchange then." He performed a few idle cut and thrusts with his sword, considering. "Do you have any experience?"

"Only what I've picked up. I've had no formal training."

"Hmmn. Then the first lesson will no doubt be me having to break you of all the bad habits you've picked up."

Porthos grinned. "Could be a long lesson. I'm full of bad habits, me."

Athos smiled back in genuine amusement and Porthos had a brief second to reflect that this was the first time he'd seen Athos smile properly and how it lit up his face, when Athos threw him his own sword, and picked up the pole Porthos had attacked the thieves with.

"Let's see what you can do."

They circled each other assessingly before attacking in earnest. Porthos had strength on his side, but Athos had a military training, and even armed only with a blunt wooden pole, he easily kept the upper hand.

In the midst of all this, Aramis and D’Artagnan arrived, astonished to discover the sounds of fighting appeared to be coming from Athos and Porthos.

"What the hell's going on?" D'Artagnan gasped.

Aramis put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "It's alright. They're only sparring. I think," he muttered.

They stood and watched as the two men closed in a final flurry of blows, ending when Porthos' sword flew from his hand following a vicious twist from Athos' wrist.

Athos stepped back and bowed, dropping the pole and pushing back his damp hair. Porthos looked at him for a second, then charged at him with a yell, tackling him round the waist and trying to get him in a wrestling hold. For a minute they heaved back and forth, Athos for a time giving as good as he got, but in the end Porthos flung him to the ground and dropped down on top of him, an elbow to his throat.

Athos let himself go limp, with a huff of silent laughter. "I yield," he offered. 

Porthos pulled him up again and they clasped hands, out of breath and smiling at each other.

"Somebody want to tell us what's going on?" D’Artagnan asked a little acerbically. It was ridiculous, but Athos had never smiled at him like that, like he was some kind of - equal. If anyone should make Athos smile, surely it should be him, muttered a treacherous voice in his head.

"Thieves," Porthos said. "We stopped them though. Drove them off."

Aramis was staring at a strange horse, saddled and patient, standing by the wall.

"Are you telling me we were visited by horse thieves, and have ended up with one more horse than we had to start with?" he asked.

Athos and Porthos looked at each other.

"Apparently, yes."

"Problem?"

Aramis just shook his head, and laughed. 

\--

While D'Artagnan had had the refurbishments to occupy himself he hadn't given much thought to the matter of the out of bounds room, but now that he found himself idle once more, it returned to his thoughts.

All three of them had at some point gone to look at the door in question - telling themselves it was just to be satisfied which one it was, so they did not, say, enter it accidentally - but there was little to be gleaned from looking. The double doors were the same as countless others in the house, and to reach them required traversing several other rooms they had not yet touched. 

D'Artagnan had also wandered casually past outside, just happening to glance up at what must be the window - only to find it firmly shuttered from the inside.

It nagged at him. If Athos was serious about this being his house as well, he should be able to go where he pleased, shouldn't he? The room faced east, and would be glorious in the morning sun.

He said as much one evening, settled around a fire in the drawing room with Aramis and Porthos.

"Does one room make that much difference?" Porthos objected. "There's plenty of others. Even you can only be in one at a time."

D'Artagnan looked obstinate. "It's the principle."

"No it isn't. You're just being nosy."

D'Artagnan gave him a sharp look, and Porthos was reminded that he was not Athos, to take blunt words with equanimity. 

"Sorry," he muttered. "I just think no good's likely to come of disobeying a direct order."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" Aramis said. The question of the room had been driving him just as crazy with curiosity, and if D'Artagnan ordered it opened, he was quite willing to go along with it.

"Don't you start," Porthos grumbled. "I'll have no part in this."

Aramis made a face at him, and he laughed, glad there were no hard feelings.

"Oh come on." D'Artagnan got to his feet. "We'll just have a quick peek. Athos hasn't been down all evening, he won't even know."

D'Artagnan and Aramis made their way though the series of interconnecting rooms until they stopped in front of the closed doors. Behind them, Porthos hovered the length of a room back, drawn despite himself, as much to keep an eye on them as anything else.

"Well. Here we are then." D'Artagnan reached out for the handle, telling himself he had every right to do so, and turned it. Nothing happened.

"Locked. Of course it's locked." D’Artagnan sighed. "Don't suppose you know where the key is?" he asked Aramis, who had become keeper of most things household.

"I'd imagine Athos has it." Aramis rattled the handle fruitlessly. "You know - Porthos could probably get us in here," he suggested thoughtfully.

They turned to look at him, and he sighed. "No."

"Oh go on," Aramis pleaded. "Think of it as a challenge."

"As opposed to a quick way to get fired?" Porthos complained, coming to join them.

" _Please?_ " Aramis wheedled, giving him soulful eyes. Porthos snorted, giving in.

He sighed, and bent to the keyhole, producing a thin wire from his belt that he jiggled expertly in the lock until it clicked open.

They walked in, holding up the lamp to look around. Inside, furniture languished abandoned under dust sheets. It smelt musty, but was much like the rest of the house, there was a bed, and delicate looking cabinetry, but nothing untoward. The only unusual element was whereas the rest of the house had at some point been largely emptied of its contents, this looked more like it had been locked up and left intact. 

It was disappointing, after their increasingly outlandish theories.

"There's nothing here. What's so special about this room? What's in here he didn’t want us to know about?" D'Artagnan wondered aloud, puzzled.

"Memories, mostly." 

The quiet voice from behind them made them all spin round in alarm to find Athos leaning in the doorway.

Aramis screwed up his face in self-reproach at getting caught, and Porthos groaned, seeing his dismissal approaching with a rapid inevitability.

D'Artagnan moved towards him, hands outstretched pleadingly. "Athos. This was my fault, I made them let me in here. Don’t blame Aramis and Porthos. Please?"

Athos studied him for a moment, then sighed heavily. "I don't blame any of you. It was my own fault. Stupid thing to do, tell you you couldn't come in here, and not why. Could hardly have contrived a more calculated way to make you want to." He came into the room warily, looking around him with an air of a man avoiding tripwires. 

"Whose room was this?" Aramis asked quietly.

Athos hesitated before answering. "My wife's."

There was a silence. "You were married before?" D'Artagnan asked finally, sounding shocked. "Why did you never say?"

Athos looked at him. He'd half assumed they all knew, it had been something of a scandal at the time, but after all perhaps D’Artagnan would have been too young, and the others not at court. "It didn’t end well," was all he said, knowing he was still being unfairly cryptic, but unwilling to discuss it. They could find out the details easily enough from someone else, if they really wanted to.

And then what would they think of him? Less than they did now. He sighed, experiencing a pang of unexpected regret that had nothing to do with the room.

D'Artagnan misread his sigh as displeasure at what they had done, and took hold of his hands.

"We'll never come in here again, I swear," he promised. "We'll close it up and none of us think of it another second."

Athos looked into his earnest face in surprise, and came to a sudden decision.

"No. You're right. Open it up. Paint it out. Get rid of the furniture - burn it, preferably. Let the light back in." He reached out and cupped D’Artagnan’s cheek with unexpected tenderness. "Call me back when it looks nothing like this any more."

He turned and walked away, leaving them staring after him in astonishment.

\--

"Any luck?"

D'Artagnan and Porthos looked up as Aramis walked into the kitchen. He'd been down to the village to collect supplies, but also to see what he could find out about Athos' history, all of them having unanimously decided it would be a bad idea to press Athos himself for details. A couple of days had passed since they'd ventured into the closed-up room, but Athos had steadfastly made no mention of it since.

Aramis sat down with a sigh. "They weren't terribly willing to talk about it at first. But I bought a few drinks in the tavern and that loosened tongues a little. And now I can see why they were reluctant. And why Athos has never mentioned it."

"You _are_ going to tell us, right?" Porthos prompted.

Aramis nodded. "I suppose I have to." He fussed with his cuffs, uncomfortably. "I only know the barest facts, not the details - and I can hardly say if what I was told is true. But yes, he was married. Happily, by all accounts - I mean, it was a love match, rather than political. Ignored those who said he was marrying beneath him. Only then, it turned out the girl was a convicted criminal."

"He found that out?" D'Artagnan leaned forward, looking pained. "That must have been awful. Did he - divorce her?"

Aramis fiddled with his moustache, considering his words.

"No. According to what I was told - and this was the village drunk, so who knows if I was being fed a tale or not - it was Athos' brother who found out."

"I didn’t know he had one," Porthos said with surprise.

"He hasn't," Aramis said shortly. "She killed him, to keep her secret."

There was a horrified silence. Aramis sighed. "It did her no good, she was discovered, and convicted. Athos - Athos saw her hanged for it."

"Oh God." D'Artagnan put his hands to his face, aghast. "Are you saying he's been shut away all this time, on his own, with just his memories of - that?"

"No wonder he drinks," Porthos said, shaking his head in disbelief. 

"And I opened up her room." D'Artagnan was on his feet, looking stricken. "What was I thinking?"

"You weren't to know," Aramis told him. "None of us were. And it's better, perhaps, the way that turned out. Don't you think?"

"I need to - " D'Artagnan turned and ran out of the room, ignoring their calls.

Aramis and Porthos looked at each other. 

"Athos isn't going to thank me for dragging it up, is he?" Aramis sighed.

Porthos patted his arm. "He must have known we'd find out." He looked thoughtful. "A few things make a bit more sense now."

"His moods?"

"And something the Cardinal said."

Aramis sighed, looking so down that Porthos frowned. "You alright?"

"Yes. I suppose." Aramis mustered a thin smile. "Asking questions didn’t exactly make me popular in the village," he admitted. "You could tell it's something they wanted to forget." He laughed shortly. "I don’t like being made to feel unwelcome. It wounds my pride."

Porthos smirked. "And your chances of getting laid?"

Aramis' smile became a little more genuine. "Exactly. Not one woman in the place would so much as glance in my direction. I've never gone this long before without - well, without."

"There's always your hand," Porthos grinned, getting up and clapping him on the shoulder.

"It's not the same," Aramis sighed wistfully, smiling up at him. 

"Beggars can't be choosers." Porthos told him. "Now did you get the supplies I asked for, or did you spend your _entire_ time at the inn?"

\--

D'Artagnan hurried through the house looking for Athos. He wasn't in any of the areas they'd done up, nor was he in his own rooms, or at least there was no reply to his knock. Athos would generally at least acknowledge potential visitors, even if it was only to yell at them to fuck off and leave him alone.

He came back downstairs slowly, considering. Maybe Athos was out with the horses, he thought. Then noticed a set of doors that were normally closed, standing open.

"Oh no," he breathed. "You're not." He ran down the last few steps and dashed through them, almost running through the rooms beyond until he got to the last set of doors. They, too, were standing open.

D'Artagnan entered the room cautiously, unsure what he would find. They'd carried out a lot of the furniture, but the bed was still there, having defeated their efforts to get it through the door. Athos was sitting on it, clutching a bottle of wine, his other hand clenched around the locket he wore.

He looked up as D'Artagnan came in, but his eyes were distant, and his expression one of wretched misery.

D'Artagnan carefully sat down next to him, heartened by the fact Athos hadn't told him to go away.

"Do you know what I did?" Athos asked quietly, letting the locket fall back amongst the folds of his shirt, and taking a long drink from the bottle. A trickle of wine escaped and ran down his chin. He ignored it.

"Yes." D'Artagnan nodded, and Athos echoed the gesture, accepting.

Unable to restrain himself, D'Artagnan leaned over and wiped away the wine stain with his thumb. Athos remained still, making no move to prevent him.

"I'm sure she deserved it," D’Artagnan said, meaning to be comforting.

"Are you? How gratifying that must be," Athos said, looking at him without anger. "I wish I was."

"Athos - " D'Artagnan drew the almost empty bottle from his unprotesting grasp and set it on the floor, taking Athos' hands in his instead. They felt cold, and he chafed them reassuringly. "Come away," he murmured. "You shouldn't be in here. It's not finished yet," he added, trying to make it about something more neutral.

"Perhaps you should just wall me up in here," Athos murmured. "Perhaps it's what I should have done myself."

"I thought you had." D'Artagnan got to his feet, wishing briefly that Porthos was there. Athos seemed to respond to his sterner tones, and D'Artagnan felt helpless. "Come on," he coaxed. He took a deep breath. "You're married to me now. Remember?"

Athos looked up, focussing on him properly for the first time. "It's hardly - "

"Isn't it?" D'Artagnan stared down at him. "Like it or not, I'm here to stay Athos. And - and I'm a long way from home, and, just, maybe you're not the only one who's miserable."

Athos stood up then, looking stricken. "I'm sorry. It seems all I can do is ruin people's lives."

"No!" D'Artagnan grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer. "I didn't mean that," he breathed. "I just meant - can't we help each other?"

A little awkwardly, he slid his arms around Athos' waist. Athos gave a shaking sigh and suddenly gathered D'Artagnan into a tight embrace. They stood there for a long while, Athos' face buried in D'Artagnan's hair, shuddering with emotion, but holding him securely enough to convey as much comfort as he took.

When they finally pulled apart, Athos looked embarrassed, and D'Artagnan squeezed his hand. "Come on. Come and join us in the kitchen. Come and distract Aramis before he makes me go over the taxes ledger for a third time and my head explodes."

"The others - " Athos tailed off, hesitant. D'Artagnan shook his head firmly. 

"Think as I do. The past is the past. It should stay there." 

\--

When they appeared, D'Artagnan still leading Athos by the hand, Aramis and Porthos merely smiled in welcome, making no mention of Athos' reddened eyes or the dark shadows haunting his face. They let him settle in a cushioned chair by the fire with a beaker of wine, and sit in comfortable silence while Aramis, as D'Artagnan had feared, tried to get him to grapple with the finer points of estate economics.

With D'Artagnan's head bowed over the columns of figures, giving his best impression of someone deeply absorbed whilst actually miles away, and Athos drowsing in his chair, Aramis looked across at Porthos and raised his eyebrows. 

"Want to join us? We could continue where we left off?"

True to his word, Aramis had been spending the time before bed each night slowly teaching Porthos to read and write.

Porthos frowned though, and quickly shook his head, giving a pointed look at Athos and D'Artagnan. Aramis sighed, but didn't press the point, and it wasn't until they were alone later on that he mentioned it again.

"They wouldn’t have minded, you know," he said mildly. "If we'd continued the lesson."

Porthos shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't want them knowing. They'll think I'm stupid."

"Why?" Aramis put an arm round him, but Porthos shrugged it off and he sighed. "Lacking a skill doesn’t make you stupid. In fact, wanting to learn at all proves you're anything but. Are you so afraid they'd dismiss you if they knew? Because I can't see it."

"I said no, okay?" Porthos snapped. 

"Fine. Fine." Aramis held his hands up in surrender, stifling a yawn. "You want to do some now?"

Porthos shot him a look, realising Aramis was dog tired and how unfair it would be to make him start another lesson this late, when he could have done it earlier if Porthos hadn't been too proud.

"Nah. Not in the mood," he muttered. "Go to bed."

Aramis yawned again. "You should too. It's getting late."

"Yeah." Porthos refused to look up, sickly afraid that he'd offended him or seemed ungrateful, but as Aramis passed his chair he reached down and ruffled his hair.

"Sweet dreams, grumpy," he murmured.

Porthos turned then, to watch him leave, and gave a quietly relieved laugh. 

"Yeah. You too," he smiled. 

\--

Opening his eyes the next morning, Porthos took a moment to savour his situation with a sleepy appreciation. Here he was in a bed of his own, in a room of his own - a rare luxury. He had a position in a well-to-do, if slightly eccentric household, and while he had never pictured himself entering another man's service, it was certainly giving him opportunities for betterment. Athos had kept to his promise to train him in swordfighting, and Aramis was persevering in teaching him his letters.

Aramis. Porthos smiled at the thought of him. He'd found an unexpectedly good friend in Aramis; good company and sharp of wit, Aramis offered honest opinions without ever making Porthos feel patronised, a feeling he'd got all too used to in life. For the first time in a long while, he was truly happy.

Porthos yawned, stretching pleasurably. He judged the hour was still early, and while there was birdsong coming through the slightly open window, the rest of the house was silent. 

The hours they kept were irregular, with both Athos and D'Artagnan prone to staying up late and sleeping later, and Porthos and Aramis, after rising promptly on the first few days, had soon discovered they were neither required nor expected to.

A creak of bedsprings from the other side of the wall suggested Aramis was awake. The wall was only thin lath and plaster and they frequently conversed for some time after they'd both gone to bed.

He was about to call out a greeting when he heard a muffled groan. Porthos frowned, wondering if Aramis was ill, but almost before the thought had formed, a second groan, louder and more quickly stifled followed the first, and Porthos closed his mouth with a smirk. It was suddenly very clear what Aramis was up to.

His words of the previous day came back to him. Aramis had clearly taken his advice and was making good use of his own hand after all.

Porthos lay there trying not to listen as Aramis continued to take what he clearly thought was a private moment. Certainly, if Porthos hadn't already been awake he wouldn't have been disturbed by the quiet noises.

The subtle moans were getting rather more urgent in tone, and Porthos discovered they were having an awkward effect on him. He manfully tried to resist for a while, feeling that it was hardly the done thing to get off to the sound of your friend taking care of his own needs, but when Aramis' bedsprings started squeaking in time with a series of breathy grunts he gave in and slid his hand into his underclothes. 

A few judicious strokes of his own hand and Porthos was completely hard. He closed his eyes, trying not to picture Aramis, but it was difficult with all the groaning going on, particularly as it was getting less and less discreet. He remembered Aramis slept nude, and groaned out loud himself as the inadvertent image gave him a jolt of arousal he hadn't expected.

Porthos realised his error when there was sudden silence from next door. 

On the other side of the wall, Aramis, who'd been getting carried away and half-forgotten that Porthos was so close, was lying frozen with a look of wide-eyed alarm, gripping his cock with a guilty tension.

Embarrassed, he listened intently for any further sounds from Porthos' room, but as Porthos was doing exactly the same thing, nothing happened.

Unable to resist any longer, Aramis let his hand slide slowly along his length, letting out the breath he'd been holding with a shuddering sigh. It wasn't that loud, but Porthos had been listening more intently than Aramis realised, and when he caught the sound he relaxed and started working himself with a firm hand.

Before long Aramis caught his involuntary moans of pleasure and knew them for exactly what they were. He stifled a laugh, and mentally shrugged. If he'd been doing it, why shouldn't Porthos?

He started jerking himself off again, and this time saw no reason to be discreet about it. In the adjacent room, Porthos found he appreciated this both in terms of the fact that the sounds were turning him on a lot more than they should, and that he no longer had to worry about making any noise himself.

Inevitably, before another minute had passed they were trying to outdo each other in terms of who could produce the loudest and filthiest groans.

Aramis, who'd started earlier, soon felt his orgasm approaching and began pulling at himself with renewed vigour, half-laughing as he did so. He tightened his grip and spent all over his taut, sweat-slick stomach, panting with satisfaction.

He lay there in a sated daze for a while, waiting politely for Porthos to finish himself before he got up and started moving around. 

And Porthos was trying to, but without the accompanying noises from Aramis he was finding it ridiculously hard to come. Porthos groaned, this time more in frustration than arousal as he found he couldn't get off and was getting increasingly tired and sore. 

He spat in his hand and tried taking it more slowly, but whilst more comfortable it still wasn't happening.

Aramis had finally got out of bed and was wiping himself down. He frowned, hearing the increasingly frustrated tone in the sounds from Porthos' room. With a sudden idea as to what the problem might be, Aramis gingerly put his ear to the dividing wall.

"God damn it," Porthos moaned despairingly. "Why can't I - unhh." He banged his head back against the pillow in frustration, his cock aching but obstinate.

Aramis, his palms resting against the rough plaster, his forehead touching the wall, gave an experimental groan. He heard Porthos' breathing hitch and smiled to himself, knowing he'd guessed correctly. He continued with a louder gasp and then a drawn out moan of pleasure.

He heard Porthos swear, and carried on, encouraged. Aramis could produce a wide range of filthy noises, and he proceeded to employ them to good effect.

By now Porthos was tugging himself frantically, breathing hard and turned on beyond measure until he finally came with a groan of relief, his release splattering messily all over his stomach and chest and sheets.

He fell back, panting and exhausted and slowly realising with a hot flush of embarrassed gratitude what Aramis must just have done for him.

When Porthos emerged into the kitchen some time later, Aramis was seated at the table. 

"Morning," Aramis said noncommittally, without looking up.

"Morning." Porthos cleared his throat. "Thanks," he said gruffly. 

"Don't mention it," Aramis muttered quickly.

Porthos fetched himself a drink and sank heavily into the chair opposite, rubbing a hand over his hair self-consciously. Aramis glanced over at him, and the corner of his mouth crooked up in a smile. Porthos smiled back, holding in the urge to laugh, and heartily relieved things weren't going to be awkward between them.

\--

With the advent of summer and a slew of warmer days they'd begun eating their meals outside in the garden, or at least that portion of it Porthos had taken it upon himself to clear of weeds, brambles and indignant rabbits.

While Aramis and Porthos shared the production of these meals, Athos had decreed early on that they might as well eat together, and so they were all gathered around the table one afternoon when the sound of an approaching horse could be heard. 

Porthos was dispatched to investigate and returned a few minutes later bearing an embossed and gilt-edged card with an impressive seal hanging from the corner. 

"Looks important," he commented, offering it to Athos. 

Athos, who'd been up barely an hour and was hungover and disinterested, made a face. "Looks tedious you mean. Read it to me," he drawled, shading his eyes from the sun.

Porthos froze, staring at the card in his hand. He recognised Athos' name - Comte de la Fère - but the writing was elaborate and curlicued, nothing like the bold, plain letters Aramis would patiently draw out for him, and he could make out nothing from the rest. 

"Read it yourself," he said roughly, throwing it down on the table. "I'm sure even you can manage that." He turned and walked off, face burning with shame while Aramis stared after him, stricken.

Athos raised his eyebrows in surprise, while D'Artagnan frowned. 

"Well. There was no need for that," D'Artagnan said pointedly, and Aramis snatched up the letter in haste, hoping to distract them.

"It's an invitation," he said with false brightness. "To a ball!"

Athos groaned, but D'Artagnan looked interested.

"Really? Where? And when?"

"The Comte de Touraine is throwing a summer ball at his estate in two days' time," Aramis read. "The Comte de la Fère and any companions he may wish to accompany him, are respectfully invited to attend."

"Shall we go?" D'Artagnan asked eagerly. Athos made a face.

"Certainly not. I can't imagine anything more dreadful."

"Athos!"

"What? You can go if you want. Take Aramis," Athos suggested with a suggestion of a smirk.

"I just might," D’Artagnan said tartly. He held out his hand for the invitation and read it eagerly. "Who is he?"

"My neighbour," Athos sighed. "The adjoining estate. The house is about eight miles that way." He gestured vaguely behind him. 

D'Artagnan wandered indoors still studying the invitation. Aramis was about to follow when Athos called out to him.

"Aramis."

He paused, sighing inwardly. It had been too much to hope the earlier scene had passed unremarked.

"Yes?" He turned, face guarded, but Athos looked thoughtful rather than angry.

"Does Porthos - not read?" he asked carefully.

Aramis hesitated, torn between his promise to Porthos and his desire to defend him. "No. No, he can't. He's learning though."

Athos nodded slowly. "Then - perhaps you would extend my apologies to him. I didn't mean to cause him any embarrassment. I didn't know."

Aramis felt suddenly weak with relief, and nodded. "I will. Thank you." 

When Aramis reached the kitchen Porthos was sitting at the table with his head in his hands.

"Go on," he said without looking up, his voice strained. "Tell me the worst. Am I fired?"

Aramis put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Of course you're not. In fact - Athos sends you his apologies." Aramis sat down in the seat opposite. 

Porthos looked up, and his initial look of surprised relief turned to a scowl as he divined the reason for his reprieve. "You told him."

"Actually, no." Aramis spread his hands. "He guessed." Porthos sighed, and Aramis slid his hands across the table, until his fingertips were just touching Porthos'. 

"He said to tell you he didn't mean to embarrass you," Aramis said softly. "He seemed genuinely contrite. And - he waited until D'Artagnan had gone, to bring it up," he added.

Porthos swallowed, nodding. "Told you he was a good man," he said sounding choked.

"Yes you did." Aramis smiled at him. "And you were right."

\--

Later, Porthos sought out Athos when he was alone in the stables grooming the horses. Porthos came in and started working quietly on the horse in the adjoining stall. 

"I owe you an apology," Porthos said after they'd worked in silence for a while. "For the way I spoke to you this morning."

Athos shrugged. "Better men than us have done worse things for pride. Did Aramis - ?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Athos gave him a half-smile. "You could just have said," he pointed out mildly.

"I know." Porthos sighed. "I know."

They worked on in a more comfortable silence until all the horses had been seen to, when Athos put down his comb and turned to Porthos. 

"Look, I was going to take one of the horses out. Would you like to come with me?" he offered.

Porthos smiled. "I'd be honoured."

A few minutes later, D'Artagnan looked down from his bedroom window and saw the two men riding at speed down one of the paths flanking the overgrown lawns. 

"Everything alright?"

D'Artagnan jumped, not having heard Aramis come in and trying to smooth the frown from his face.

"Will you be disgusted with me if I complain I have nothing to wear to this ball?" D'Artagnan sighed, pushing thoughts of Athos from his mind. 

Aramis came further in and looked over his shoulder into the wardrobe. "Apart from all that you mean?" 

D'Artagnan had taken delivery of numerous trunks of his belongings including several just of clothes. Out of earshot, Porthos had muttered there was enough to clad half the Court of Miracles if it weren't for the fact only the starving amongst them would have been skinny enough to get into them. Aramis had pretended to slap him, but he'd still laughed.

"I've worn all these."

"Unlikely anyone at this particular ball will know that. Most of them probably never venture further than their own estates."

"I'll know." D'Artagnan gave him a sheepish smile. "Am I being dreadful?" 

Aramis smiled back. "The fact it even occurs to you to ask that - I'm going to say no." He fondled the rich material of a pleated jacket thoughtfully.

"You could have another outfit made?"

"Not in two days. Not out here."

"Well - you could have something altered? Make a new look out of it?"

"Where am I going to find a tailor?"

Aramis hesitated. "I could probably do it? Not bad with a needle, although I'm more used to uniform repairs and the occasional sword wound," he grinned.

D'Artagnan was looking at him eagerly. "Really? You could do that?"

"I'd give it a try." Aramis smiled, charmed by his open excitement. "You have to promise not to dismiss me if I manage to ruin something though."

"I promise," D'Artagnan laughed. "And I'm willing to take the risk."

They sorted through the things D'Artagnan was happy to sacrifice in their current form, and that Aramis considered he could make easy enough alterations to. He made D'Artagnan stand in front of the full length mirror while he draped various things over him, then fetched a tape measure. It was when he had the tape around D'Artagnan's waist and his hands resting on D'Artagnan's hips that he looked up and caught D'Artagnan watching him in the mirror.

For a second they stared at each other in the reflection, then D'Artagnan blushed and dropped his gaze and Aramis cleared his throat and stepped back.

"Right. Well. I think I've got enough to be getting on with. I'll - yes." He gathered up the clothes and made a slightly flustered exit, leaving D'Artagnan in possession of the tape measure, winding and unwinding it round his hand absent-mindedly. 

\--

In the kitchen that evening Porthos looked up from a page of what Aramis had called simple sentences and Porthos called abject fuckery, and snorted. 

"I see you've become a lady's maid as well now," he jibed.

Aramis didn't rise to it, calmly biting off a thread and shaking out the garment assessingly.

"We all have our talents," he murmured. 

"You pander to him," Porthos persisted, welcoming an argument in lieu of spending any longer staring at the letters on the page.

"I'm fond of him," Aramis countered. "What's he ever done to you, anyway?" He got to his feet and held out the jacket. He'd added lace from another coat and altered the fit, sewing golden silk pleats into the body of it. "What do you think?"

Porthos gave it a cursory glance. "Yeah, very nice," he said dismissively.

Aramis gave a slight sigh and went to fold it carefully away. Porthos caught the disappointment on his face and was annoyed with himself.

"No, wait." He stood up and came over to Aramis. "Let me see properly."

Aramis held it up again with a look of surprise, and Porthos gave it a more critical once-over. Aramis' stitching was as neat as the original tailor's and he was impressed.

"You're bloody clever you," he muttered.

"Not bad for a lady's maid, eh?" Aramis smiled, pleased despite himself. "Does it need anything else, do you think?"

Porthos considered. "More buttons."

"Buttons? Where? There's nothing else to do up."

"They don't have to _do_ anything," Porthos said scornfully. "They're decorative. Gold buttons," he added firmly. A row of them. Down here, and here." He stood back and Aramis grinned at him.

"Since when did you become a fashion expert?" he teased.

Porthos resumed his seat, huffing. "Just because I can't afford fancy clothes doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like them," he muttered.

"Perhaps I should make you something?" Aramis smiled innocently. 

Porthos gave him a look. "As long as it doesn't have petticoats," he said darkly.

"I was thinking more something with a corset," Aramis said, and Porthos gave a shout of laughter.

\--

On the night of the ball they were waiting for D'Artagnan to emerge from the house. Porthos had brought two horses round to the door and Aramis was already astride, attired in his outfit from the wedding and his best cloak. D'Artagnan had taken Athos at his word and pressed Aramis into accompanying him.

Finally D'Artagnan walked out, and Aramis nodded approvingly. The coat he'd altered sat well on D'Artagnan's lean frame, the silk slashes gleaming as he walked. The buttons had been a good touch, too. D'Artagnan had liked the buttons.

He wore his hair tied back in a braid and a sword at his hip, a soft grey cloak over his shoulder and his boots had been polished to within an inch of their lives. Aramis had seen to most of his dressing, but D'Artagnan had requested a moment alone before joining them outside.

Now he looked at Athos, waiting for his verdict, and Aramis could tell he was nervous.

"So. How do I look?" D'Artagnan asked, sounding uncharacteristically shy.

Athos looked him up and down, and smiled. "Very handsome," he said softly.

D'Artagnan's lips parted in surprise, and a blush rose to his cheeks. "You could still come," he urged quietly, suddenly longing to be able to walk in at his side. Athos shook his head.

"I'd only spend all night looking resentful, and you'd hate me for it," he said lightly. 

D'Artagnan pursed his lips, stung by the rebuffal and embarrassed that he'd asked. "Come on Aramis," he said shortly, mounting his horse. "At least some of us know how to have fun." 

Athos looked up at him, expression neutral. "D'Artagnan - don't be disappointed if it doesn't live up to your expectations," he said carefully.

"You just don't want me to enjoy myself," D'Artagnan complained. "You'd rather I sat at home and watched you drink yourself daft like every other night. Well I'm not going to." He spurred his horse on, and Aramis followed, with an apologetic glance over his shoulder.

Athos watched them ride away with a troubled expression, and felt Porthos' hand come to rest on his shoulder.

"Aramis'll take care of him," Porthos assured him.

Athos nodded. "I'm sure he can take care of himself for that matter."

"And yet you look worried," Porthos said astutely.

Athos sighed. "A union such as ours - it's hardly a commonplace thing. In Paris a scandal one is not involved in is a thing to be enjoyed, courted. Out here - people are less likely to find such a thing amusing or diverting."

Porthos frowned. "You don't think he'll be in any danger?"

"No - no. I'd hardly have let him go if I thought that. Just that - he may find it less pleasant being the centre of attention than he anticipates."

"You didn't think to say?"

Athos looked at him. "You heard him. He already thought I was trying to spoil his fun." He shook himself. "I'm probably worrying over nothing. It's only a dance." He looked enquiring. "Did you have no wish to join them?"

Porthos grinned. "Last time I went to a dance there was the small matter of a hogshead of ale and six broken tables."

Athos' smile widened. "With a promise such as that I'm almost sorry I didn't insist we all go," he murmured.

\--

As they rode along D'Artagnan's spirits improved. He was optimistic by nature, the evening was sunny and mild, and the promise of new people and a measure of excitement meant he was soon smiling again. 

Aramis rode at his side, and the few miles between the estates soon passed as they speculated on what might await them. Their main worry was that it would be entirely comprised of retired military men and dried-up dowager duchesses, in which case their agreed strategy was to locate the buffet table and defend it against all comers. In the event of a rather younger and more attractive guest list, dancing and decorous flirting was definitely higher on the agenda.

When they arrived D’Artagnan was obscurely pleased to discover the house was smaller than the la Fère mansion, although in much better repair with the immaculate grounds laid out in intricate formal patterns. There were carriages all up the sweeping gravelled approach, and a page took charge of their horses as they dismounted.

D'Artagnan entered the house and presented his invitation to a footman, explaining discreetly who he was. He was directed to the ballroom, and entered with Aramis following at a distance attempting to look both inconspicuous and respectful, neither of which came particularly naturally.

"The Comte D'Artagnan-de la Fère," a second footman announced, and the room hushed noticeably as people turned to stare at him. D'Artagnan smiled round politely, not at all thrown by the attention.

"D'Artagnan, did he say?" An elderly man was approaching in an elaborate frock coat sporting what Aramis decided were enough superfluous buttons to have kept Porthos happy for a month.

"Yes sir," D'Artagnan replied politely.

"Hrmpf. Knew your father. I'm the Comte de Touraine, by the way."

"Oh. Pleased to meet you sir," D'Artagnan said hurriedly with a bow, realising this was his host. "Thank you for the invitation, Athos sends his regards, he is unfortunately - indisposed this evening."

"Athos?" The man stared at him irritably. "Oh, you mean la Fère." He was glaring at D'Artagnan in such a hostile manner that D'Artagnan wondered what he'd done wrong. 

"You knew my father, you said?" he enquired, hoping to move the conversation on.

"Yes. A good man," Touraine nodded. D'Artagnan was about to thank him, when the Comte's next words threw him entirely. "It's as well he didn’t live to see what became of his son."

D'Artagnan sensed Aramis stiffen behind him, but he was too taken aback himself to immediately process the insult. "I beg your pardon?" he stammered, sure he must have misunderstood. But the old man glared at him even harder.

"Well, look at you. Given over to that drunken disgrace like the cardinal's whore."

"I - now wait a minute." D’Artagnan bridled, almost more indignant at the insult to Athos. "We were properly married."

"You call that proper! Two men living as man and wife? It's immoral, is what it is. Unthinkable!"

"Well - why did you invite Athos then, if you disapprove so much?" D'Artagnan asked.

Touraine sniffed dismissively. "He's my neighbour. Politeness dictates I invite the man. Politeness also ensures he never shows his face."

D’Artagnan had barely formed a coherent reply before Touraine had stalked off again.

"Well. Not quite what I was expecting," he muttered to Aramis. "Do you think Athos knew he'd be like that? Why didn’t he say he had an agreement not to come here?"

"Would you have listened?" Aramis shook his head slowly. "Besides, I don’t think Athos would have sent us if something that formal was in place. I've a feeling what the old goat thinks is an unspoken understanding has more to do with Athos never bothering to read his damn invitations in the first place."

D'Artagnan relaxed a little. "You could be right." He sighed. "Well, he didn’t actually throw us out, so shall we see if the rest of the guests are a little friendlier?"

Aramis smiled. "Your optimism is inspiring. Although I suppose they could hardly be worse." 

They made a face at each other and laughed. 

While D'Artagnan moved further into the crowd of assorted local nobility and landowners hoping to make a more favourable impression, Aramis made his way round the edge of the room to where he could see a gathering of manservants and ladies in waiting who'd presumably accompanied their employers here as he had done. 

On his way across he liberated a glass of wine from a side table, and had barely lifted it to his lips when a disapproving voice accosted him from behind.

"That, _sir_ , is for the quality. Not the likes of you."

Aramis turned to find a steward glaring at him down a considerable nose.

Aramis smiled at him cheerfully. "It looked lonely," he said, taking a healthy mouthful and than making a face. "Ugh, God. You're right, they deserve it. Go on, you're hiding the good stuff, right?"

"You go too far sir!" The man turned an interesting shade of red and Aramis wondered if he was about to keel over from some form of brainstorm. Certainly if he looked any harder down his nose at him he was going to go cross-eyed. 

Aramis drained the glass out of principle and handed it to the steward, who was so surprised he took it. Aramis tipped an imaginary hat at him and walked off. Confidence, he mused, was everything. That and the comforting knowledge that if he got thrown out D'Artagnan would probably only laugh. Although, now he came to think about it, given D'Artagnan's reception perhaps he shouldn't go too far to further risk his employer's reputation. 

Resolving to behave, Aramis joined the group of attendants and made a beeline for the prettiest of the ladies' maids.

"Good evening." He smiled. "My name is Aramis. I'm - "

"We know who you are," she said, with unsettling directness, while the others giggled. 

"You're with _him_ ," said another. The giggling intensified, and Aramis tried not to look discomforted.

"Him? If you mean the Comte D'Artagnan, yes, I have the honour of - "

"Being his plaything?" interrupted the first woman, only to be overcome by her own daring and ducking behind a knot of others. 

"I'm not sure what you - " Aramis tried, but they were all staring at him now with an unnerving gleam of amusement.

"He's married to Olivier de la Fère, isn't he?" one of them asked. "Do they make you - you know. _Do_ things for them?" The entire group dissolved into laughter at the idea and their own hilarity, and Aramis sighed.

"He probably has to _bend_ to their every whim," came the voice of the first woman, whom Aramis was swiftly coming the conclusion he did not like after all.

"It's a political match - " Aramis attempted to get a word in, but no-one was interested in his explanations and he gave in gracefully and faded away from the group.

Checking for the presence of irate household staff, he appropriated another glass of wine and moved towards a group of housemaids, wondering if his luck would fare better with women who didn't see themselves as half a step down from nobility just because of who they worked for.

The looks he received here though were even less friendly, and his attempted overtures of friendship met with awkward silence and stony looks.

Finally, one serving-girl stepped forward. "You work for a wife-murderer and his boy-slut. Do you seriously think we'd be interested in you?"

Speechless, Aramis murmured an apology for intruding, and walked away, his self-possession shaken. Gathering his thoughts, he decided he'd better check on D'Artagnan in case he was receiving the same treatment. He wouldn’t put it past him to challenge someone to a duel for a perceived insult. Although the insults round here seemed less perceived and more direct and liberally thrown.

D'Artagnan's experience of the ball so far, whilst less directly objectionable than Aramis', had been mostly characterised by people refusing to talk to him at all. As he'd approached various groups, conversations had dried up and members had drifted away, or alternatively closed ranks, showing him turned backs and no polite way to introduce himself.

He sighed, downing a glass of wine because there was nothing else to do. When Aramis appeared at his side he gave him a welcoming smile of relief. 

"Not quite the entertaining evening I'd pictured," D'Artagnan sighed. 

"The whole place is populated by prigs and prudes," Aramis declared disgustedly, in a voice that carried rather further than he'd meant it to. 

"Chastise your man at once, lackeys should be seen and not heard," declared a passing landowner to D'Artagnan in a condemning tone. "Particularly ones without the breeding or training to know they shouldn't help themselves to the refreshments."

D'Artagnan's sword was half out the scabbard when Aramis' hand closed over his urgently.

"D'Artagnan, you can't!" he hissed.

"But he insulted you!" D’Artagnan said through gritted teeth.

"I'll survive," Aramis told him under his breath. "Which is more than I can guarantee for you if you draw steel in here, where we're surrounded by people who unaccountably don't seem to like us very much."

D’Artagnan finally slammed his sword back in its sheath and Aramis breathed a sigh of relief.

"You let your _man_ tell you what to do?" drawled the young lord who'd caused the trouble in the first place. "Well, I suppose by all accounts it's in your nature..." he walked off with a braying laugh, and D'Artagnan reached for his sword again.

"Let's just go, shall we?" Aramis said quickly, before D'Artagnan could cause a major incident. "We're obviously not welcome, and we're not going to change anyone's minds."

D'Artagnan gave a sigh, and nodded. "Let's get out of here."

As they left the house and waited for the horses to be lead round, a light rain started to fall, and D'Artagnan growled.

"Perfect. Just perfect. Just when I thought this evening couldn’t get any better." He blinked fiercely, forcing back the threat of angry tears. 

Aramis wondered whether to attempt to be comforting, or if it would only make things worse. In the end he stayed silent, and the ride back was a far more subdued affair than when they'd ventured out.

Reaching home, they stabled their horses wearily and walked into the house. D'Artagnan was half-inclined to go straight up to bed and avoid Athos altogether, not wanting to endure the inevitable 'I told you so', but the stubborn part of him made him walk into the drawing room where Athos and Porthos were sitting in quiet conversation.

Athos looked up in surprise. "Hello. I wasn't expecting you back for hours yet." He got to his feet, sensing all was not well.

D'Artagnan came right in, pulling off his cloak and sighing. Athos frowned.

"D'Artagnan? Is everything all right?"

His expression was one of genuine concern and D'Artagnan's fears of being laughed at melted before it. 

"You were right," he said miserably. "I never should have gone."

Athos took D’Artagnan’s hands in his own and gazed at him in protective indignance.

"They've upset you. Who was it? What happened?" He drew D'Artagnan closer and tilted his chin up to look him in the eye. "Do I have to kill anyone?" Athos asked with a straight face, and was pleased to see D'Artagnan give a reluctant laugh.

"You'd do that for me?" D'Artagnan murmured, surprised.

"Certainly. An insult to you is an insult to me after all," Athos told him. "What happened?"

D'Artagnan sighed and shook his head. "Nothing. Not really. It was just - a mistake, to go."

He looked so woebegone that Athos couldn’t help himself, he put his arms right round him. He half-expected D'Artagnan to pull away but he didn't, leaning instead into Athos' embrace.

"I didn't even get to dance," he complained.

Athos rested his cheek carefully against D'Artagnan's head and stroked a hand down his back, until it was resting at his waist. "Well, I'll dance with you, if that's what you want?" he murmured.

"Really?" D'Artagnan gave a quiet laugh, and they started moving awkwardly across the floor.

"It's been a while. I'm not entirely sure I can remember the steps," Athos admitted as they tripped each other up for a second time.

"I could always lead?" D'Artagnan offered, looking happier than he had all evening.

"Oh, I don't think so," Athos told him, but he was smiling back, and together they managed a passable circuit of the drawing room under the amused gaze of Aramis and Porthos.

Porthos nudged Aramis and grinned. "I don't have to kill anyone for you do I?"

Aramis laughed. "I can fight my own battles. But thank you for the thought."

"What did happen?" Porthos asked curiously. 

"Oh it was just very - provincial," Aramis sighed, unwilling to repeat anything that had been said. "I don't think they were quite ready for us."

"Well, you know what they say," Porthos murmured sagely. "If the nobility's made up of nobles, what do you expect the country to be made from?"

Aramis choked with laughter, and Porthos beamed, glad to have cheered him up. They leaned against the table together, watching Athos and D’Artagnan complete their slow steps, seemingly oblivious to their audience.

When they came to a halt D'Artagnan remained standing in the circle of Athos' arms. 

"Athos?" he whispered.

"Yes?" 

"I don't want to sleep alone tonight," D'Artagnan confessed. He'd mostly got used to his big, lonely room, but the thought of having to go off there by himself after such an emotionally taxing night was off-putting in the extreme.

"Then, I'll come with you," Athos promised.

"You will?" D'Artagnan looked surprised and hopeful, and Athos nodded. 

"Of course. If you wish it."

They left the room together, Athos' hand still resting at D'Artagnan's waist.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "Well. What do you make of that?"

"Saw it coming to be honest," Porthos said.

"Really?"

"The lad obviously worships him. And Athos has always been protective."

"Or, it's just a long time to go without a warm body in your bed," Aramis suggested more prosaically, pulling himself up to sit on the table with a sigh.

Porthos looked at him. "Is that all it is? I thought you'd have been more of a romantic."

"Well. It has to be the _right_ body," Aramis conceded.

"Does it have to be a woman's?" Porthos asked speculatively, after a pause.

"Not - necessarily." Aramis looked up. "I thought we were talking about Athos and D'Artagnan."

"Were we?" Porthos held his gaze, and Aramis slowly smiled.

"A warm body," he murmured thoughtfully. "A warm pair of arms - it _would_ be nice."

Porthos came closer, stepping deliberately into his personal space until he was standing between Aramis' splayed legs. 

"Just someone to hold you?" Porthos asked, still not quite sure what they were negotiating here.

"Perhaps - a warm pair of lips?" breathed Aramis. Porthos was so close now he could feel the heat from his body, and his cock was rising unbidden in his breeches at the unspoken promise.

Porthos leaned down and kissed him. It was a gentle kiss, chaste even, but it made Aramis' blood quicken. He reached out instinctively and closed the space between them, pulling Porthos down into another kiss, and another. 

As the kisses increased in passion, Porthos slid his hands beneath the seat of Aramis' breeches and pulled him snugly forward against his body. The discovery that both of them were quite as hard as the other released them from any last hesitation, and Aramis promptly wrapped his legs around Porthos' waist and pressed his mouth to his ear.

"Take me to bed?" he whispered.

\--

D'Artagnan climbed into bed, sitting up and hugging his knees to his chest. Athos had escorted him as far as the door of his chamber before saying he was going to go and fetch his own night-shirt, and D'Artagnan was more than half convinced it had just been an excuse to leave.

He sat there trying hard to pretend he wasn't concerned if Athos returned or not, and the quiet knock when it came made him jump out of all proportion to its volume.

At D’Artagnan’s call, Athos came in and smiled a little hesitantly. He was already attired in nightshirt and robe, and seemed to relax when D'Artagnan smiled back in badly disguised relief and beckoned him over eagerly.

Athos climbed in, and what had seemed a ridiculously large bed for one person abruptly felt to D'Artagnan like he was encroaching impertinently on Athos' space with every movement of his body.

"Are you sure you don't mind this?" D'Artagnan asked, as Athos settled beside him.

"Why should I mind?" Athos said quietly. "I've shared a bed often enough before, certainly during my military service. And you are hardly an objectionable sleeping partner."

D'Artagnan blushed and was glad the room was dimly lit, a single candle burning beside the bed.

"I was just - after this evening, and - this room's so - I mean - "

Athos laid a calming hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. "You don't have to make excuses," he murmured. "Nor are you required to explain. I've said I don't mind, and I don't. If I did, I wouldn't be here."

D'Artagnan relaxed, and even leaned against him as Athos blew out the candle. 

"Goodnight D'Artagnan," Athos murmured, and pressed an unexpected kiss to his forehead before lying down at his side.

D'Artagnan, just able to make him out in the dark, moved closer and before he could think about it too much, kissed Athos on the mouth.

"Goodnight," he whispered, and promptly losing his nerve rolled over so that his back was to Athos, his heart beating wildly. Athos though, gave no indication that he objected and after a moment he even slipped an arm round D'Artagnan's waist. They fell asleep together, comfortably warm and quietly at ease.

\--

Downstairs, Aramis landed on his back on Porthos' bed with a force that knocked the breath from his lungs, Porthos landing on top of him before he could recover it. They kissed hungrily, enjoying the unaccustomed thrill of having another man's aroused body pressed against them.

"Too many clothes," Aramis gasped after they'd been rutting together for a few minutes. "Need more skin."

Discarding items in between heated kisses, they tangled together in an increasing state of undress, laughing as they threw each garment floorwards. 

It wasn't long before they were both naked, and Porthos took Aramis' cock into his hand, making him hiss with pleasure as he drew his hand slowly up the length of it. 

It was a curious sensation, touching another man in this way, and not one he had any experience of. Porthos was just happy that a man like Aramis would want to be with him - and there was no mistaking the genuine pleasure that Aramis was deriving from this, moaning and sighing with unselfconscious abandon as Porthos continued to work his cock.

"Come here," Aramis urged, holding his arms open. "I want to feel you against me," he begged under his breath. Porthos lay back down, covering Aramis with his body and letting his cock rub up against his belly. Aramis groaned approval and pushed against him, increasing the contact and friction.

" _Aramis_." Porthos kissed a trail down his throat and chest. Aramis' nails down his back made him groan in surprised arousal, and Porthos rocked his hips against him roughly in response.

"Yes. _God_." Aramis threw his head back and dug his fingers into Porthos' back, encouraging him to do it harder and faster.

Suddenly Porthos rolled off him, but before Aramis could complain he'd taken hold of both his cock and Aramis', pressed together in one large hand and started stroking them with a quick, ragged rhythm. Aramis moaned, clutching at Porthos' upper arms with a desperate strength as Porthos jerked them both off.

Aramis came first, spilling over Porthos' fingers with a quiet sigh that was so at odds with the loud noises he'd been making the rest of the time it made Porthos laugh.

He was still laughing when Aramis made him come a minute or so later, having knocked his hand away and taken over, long fingers pulling him to a shaking climax.

They cleaned themselves up in a cursory fashion and snuggled back together, happily tired and sated and each glad of the other's uncomplicated willingness to go to sleep without needing to discuss anything.

\--

Aramis woke the next morning to a pounding head and a sourness in his belly that seemed unfairly disproportionate to the amount he'd actually drunk. He groaned, reaching out to clutch at the pillow before realising that he was sprawled across someone else's body, his head resting on their chest.

The events of the previous night came back in a rush, and he cracked open an eye. Lifting his head more than an inch proved unwise, and he winced in pain.

"Morning," Porthos smirked, looking down at him. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," said Aramis weakly. "I feel it. What the hell did I drink last night?"

"Quite a lot by the looks of it," Porthos murmured, feeling vaguely guilty. He hadn't thought Aramis had been all that drunk at the time, although he was reassured by the fact Aramis didn't seem to object to waking up with him like this.

Aramis shook his head, then groaned. "I didn't!" he protested. "Barely two glasses. And now I can hardly move."

"Don't then," Porthos suggested. "Stay where you are."

Aramis let his head subside gratefully back to Porthos' chest and felt a hand come to rest comfortingly on his back.

They dozed peacefully for a few minutes, until a sudden jangling made them jump.

"What the hell's that?" Aramis groaned, trying to burrow away from the noise beneath the covers. 

"Servants' bell," Porthos frowned. "They've never bothered with it before."

"And they had to pick today to remember it was there?" Aramis tried to lever himself up but fell back into the bedclothes in a cold sweat, feeling like he might throw up.

"I'll go. You stay here," Porthos told him, rolling out of the bed.

"You're a prince and I love you," Aramis groaned.

Porthos grinned, and bent down to kiss him. "Hold that thought."

Hastily pulling on some clothes, he made his way up to D'Artagnan's rooms, where he found Athos in a dressing gown, managing to look simultaneously embarrassed, harassed and exasperated.

"I'm sorry for summoning you like this," Athos said distractedly. "I know it's early. It's just - D'Artagnan has been taken rather ill, and - would you be kind enough to start heating water for a bath? I thought it might ease the cramps a little."

Over Athos' shoulder, Porthos could see D'Artagnan curled up in the bed, nightshirt buttoned to the neck, and a greenish pallor over his normally healthy complexion. He groaned dramatically, and Athos rolled his eyes.

"You're hardly dying."

"Thanks for the sympathy." D'Artagnan made a face and looked over at Porthos in hope of more support.

Porthos realised something. "Aramis has been taken the same," he said to Athos. "He swears he hardly drank a thing. Was the wine spoiled, do you think?"

Athos gave a sudden brief laugh, and they both looked at him indignantly. For Athos, who rarely laughed at anything, to find amusement in the illness of two of his friends seemed unfair, and seeing their faces he quickly apologised.

"Sorry. It's not you and Aramis," he told D’Artagnan. "More the thought that - well, presumably you're not the only ones struck down this morning. Touraine’s ball will certainly prove a memorable one if he's managed to poison half the surrounding countryside!"

Porthos grinned. "I'll tell Aramis. It'll cheer him up." He nodded to Athos. "I'll start heating the water right away."

When he'd gone, Athos sat on the edge of the bed and let his hand come to rest over D'Artagnan's. 

"Told you I didn't drink that much," D'Artagnan muttered.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," Athos admitted with a smile.

Downstairs, Porthos found Aramis had dressed and ventured into the kitchen, although he was bent almost double and holding onto the dresser for dear life.

"Thought I told you to stay in bed," Porthos scolded.

"I thought you might need a hand," Aramis said faintly. "What did they want?"

"Water for a bath. D’Artagnan’s the same as you. Reckon the wine was off."

Aramis let out a stream of fluent curses that impressed even Porthos, and he grinned. "Athos reckons Touraine'll have made half his guests sick, so if it's any consolation you won't be the only one cursing his name this morning."

"It's a small comfort," Aramis conceded. Porthos came over and put his arms round him, and Aramis leaned gratefully into his comforting warmth.

"How do you feel?"

"Rough as a docker's cat. Reckon I'll be spending most of today becoming acquainted with the privvy."

Porthos laughed, and kissed him. Aramis decided this was a fine distraction from his aches and pains, and they were getting quite into it when someone cleared their throat and they broke apart in embarrassment to find Athos standing in the doorway, clearly not quite knowing where to look.

"I'll, um, yes. Go back to bed," Aramis muttered, and to Porthos' indignance made his escape.

Porthos coughed sheepishly and gave Athos a wary look.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to - interrupt anything," Athos said. "I just came to say you may as well set out the bath down here, rather than have to carry the water all the way upstairs."

"Right. Thanks yeah."

Rather than go back upstairs immediately, Athos lingered. "You and Aramis. You're - intimate?" he asked quietly after a long hesitation.

"You could say that, yeah." Porthos nodded. "Well, since last night anyway."

"Right." Athos looked at him and quickly away again, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Do you mind?" Porthos asked.

"No. No, why should I?" Athos said hastily.

"Just checking."

They stared at each other for a moment, then Athos shook himself and turned away with a muttered apology.

Porthos set about stoking up the kitchen fires and set the first large basin of water to heat before going to find Aramis. 

"Oops." Porthos smiled, sitting down on the side of the bed.

"Was he okay about it?" Aramis asked.

"Yeah, course."

"Well, as presumably he spent last night doing much the same with D'Artagnan, he can hardly complain."

Porthos rubbed his beard. "I'm not so sure he did. They were both pretty well buttoned up when I went in this morning."

Aramis raised an eyebrow, then smirked. "Nightshirts can be lifted you know," he murmured.

"Tell me more," Porthos grinned. 

Aramis laughed, and put his arms round him. "I'm in no fit state," he sighed. Porthos gathered him closer and hugged him affectionately.

The night before, Aramis hadn't really been thinking beyond the prospect of immediate pleasure, but finding Porthos so open to continuing the liaison he was entirely happy to go along with it. It was nice too, to feel comforted when he was feeling so low, and he rested his head gratefully on Porthos' shoulder.

\--

The day passed quietly enough, D'Artagnan and Aramis spending most of it sitting together and groaning in mutual sympathy, while Athos and Porthos came and went, depending on how long they could put up with their friends' grumbling. 

Everyone turned in early, and on the stairs that night, D’Artagnan turned to Athos hopefully. 

"I don't suppose..." he let the thought trail off.

"You want me to come with you?" Athos guessed, and D’Artagnan nodded. 

"It was - nice," he confessed.

Athos gave a slight smile. "Alright. Why not?"

They got ready for bed in companionable silence, and when they were settled together, D'Artagnan turned to Athos, inwardly hoping for a kiss but slightly too nervous to initiate one.

Athos looked at him, hesitated a beat, then leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. "Goodnight," he murmured, hoping that he'd done right, that it had been what D'Artagnan wanted.

D’Artagnan gave him a smile fit to melt the coldest heart, and Athos ducked his head, busying himself with snuffing out the candles at the bedside. D'Artagnan confused him. On one hand, he was surprised by how protective he'd come to feel towards the boy, and far from resenting the intrusion into his life, had come to enjoy his company. 

On the other, some of his emerging feelings were far from protective and he buried them quickly, afraid they would show on his face. D’Artagnan would no doubt be appalled if he knew some of the shameful urges Athos was currently experiencing where he was concerned, and he was determined never to let it affect the way he behaved towards him. He had to remember that D'Artagnan hadn't asked for this, that he mustn't assume a desire for company was a desire for anything else. 

As they lay down to sleep, Athos suddenly recalled the kitchen that morning, the sight of Porthos holding Aramis in his arms, kissing him so hard and so passionately, and he bit his lip fiercely, willing the memory away with difficulty. Sleep, tonight, would be a long time coming. 

\--

In the kitchen below, Aramis and Porthos had paused at their bedroom doors, looking at each other in mutual enquiry.

"Did you want to join me?" Porthos offered.

"I'm not sure I'd be good for much," Aramis warned him. He was feeling a lot better than he had, but his only desire right now was to sleep for a week.

Porthos shook his head. "Just to sleep then," he suggested, a shy hope in his eyes. He wasn't sure yet if Aramis wanted this to be more than just a physical thing, but he knew that he did, had been effectively lost from the first kiss, and was open to as much or as little as Aramis wanted.

Aramis left his doorway and came across to him. "I thought you liked having a room of your own?" he said softly.

Porthos took Aramis' hands, and raised them to his lips. "It doesn't stop being a room of my own if I choose to share it with you," he smiled.

Smiling back, Aramis nodded slowly. "Then I'd love to." 

\--

Full summer heralded its arrival with a string of oppressively hot days and thunderstorms, and the inhabitants of the house coped in their own ways. 

Athos chose the coolest north facing room he could find, closed the shutters against the sun and retreated there with a book and several bottles of wine he'd been chilling in the ice house.

D'Artagnan insisted on going riding in the rain despite all advice to the contrary, because he found it exhilarating and refreshing after the clammy heat. Athos had strictly forbidden him from asking Aramis or Porthos to clean down his muddy horse afterwards, but D'Artagnan didn't mind. He felt constantly restless, like he was too tight in his own skin, and any form of physical exertion helped.

As for Aramis and Porthos themselves, they passed most of the time shut in their rooms exploring the possibilities of their newfound relationship. Aramis had an inventive and hedonistic mind, and was willing to try anything that might feel good and several things that might not, just on the off chance. Porthos proved to be an enthusiastic and amenable partner, taking as much delight from pleasuring Aramis as from receiving his attentions, and they grew closer by the day.

While they'd both been aware of men who preferred the company of their own sex, neither had previously given it much thought. It had certainly never occurred to either of them that it could be like this, that what had begun as a practical way of seeking a purely physical release could come to include so much affection and laughter.

The hot, heavy weather seemed to make their lovemaking all the more intense, their bodies glistening with sweat, sliding together, covers thrown back, window open to the sound of the rain beating on the ground, making each other come so many times they finally lost count. 

The days without rain, when the long grasses were steaming in the sun and even Athos could be coaxed outside, were spent in mock combat trials, testing each other’s strengths and learning new skills. 

Porthos was rapidly improving his swordsmanship under the critical eye of Athos, with Athos bettering his unarmed combat and store of dirty tricks in return. D'Artagnan, naturally talented but inexperienced, also came on quickly under their mostly-patient tutelage, and to everyone's surprise Aramis was revealed to be a marksman to rival them all.

As soon as this became apparent, targets were promptly set up and the three others spent a happy afternoon trying to out-shoot him. When Athos and Aramis drew level on the targets, Porthos and D'Artagnan devised a distance match for them, setting out empty wine bottles on a wall and pacing out marks for them to shoot from.

For the first ten shots both Athos and Aramis blew their bottles to splinters, each concentrating fiercely as the other did his best to put him off with various taunts about his parentage, sexual ability, approaching non-existent wasps and anything else they could think of. Arguably Athos had a slight advantage as it was far easier to make Aramis laugh, but still they were level scoring.

D’Artagnan returned from setting up the next two bottles as they moved still further away, shading his eyes as he peered back towards the wall. He knew he'd have missed at least the last five shots, and judging by the way Porthos was shaking his head in disbelief, he felt the same.

Athos took aim first, with steady hands and a frown of concentration. He was dimly aware of Aramis suggesting politely that his breeches were hanging open and he really should check, with corresponding laughter from the others, but it was easy enough to filter out the distraction. He squeezed the trigger carefully, blinked at the flash of powder and then sighed. He'd missed.

He stepped back, shrugging lightly. "No-one could hit it from this distance," Athos declared. 

"Care to place a bet?" Aramis immediately demanded, taking his place.

"Very well. What do you want if you win?" Athos conceded, amused.

Aramis considered. "A new hat." 

Athos bowed agreement and stood back to let Aramis take his shot. This time Athos refrained from any distraction, partly because he was genuinely interested in seeing if Aramis really could hit the bottle from this distance, and partly because he suspected silence would be more unnerving as Aramis wondered what he was up to.

Aramis took a moment to load and line up his shot, judging the distance and aiming carefully. His shot was followed a split second later by the tinkle of breaking glass and he looked up, half surprised himself that he'd done it.

Porthos and D'Artagnan thumped him on the back in hearty congratulations and Athos held out his hand, honestly impressed.

"That was incredible," he said, and Aramis grinned at him.

"Do I get the hat?"

"You do," Athos smiled. "Order what you will. I'm just glad you're working for me, and not against."

When they'd cleared away and Athos and Porthos had gone ahead into the house, D'Artagnan hung back to talk to Aramis. There'd been something on his mind for a while now, and his options for consultation were limited.

"Aramis. You're a man of the world, right? Can I ask your advice on something? It's - kind of delicate."

Aramis smirked. "If it involves anything itching I'm not getting involved."

D'Artagnan snorted and shook his head, grateful for Aramis breaking his awkward tension.

"You know - when you like someone. And you want to - take things further. But you don’t know if they're interested. Or what to do."

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "I didn’t think you were particularly lacking in experience." 

"Wouldn’t be a problem if it was a woman," D’Artagnan muttered, then froze. "Um."

Aramis hid a smile. "We're definitely talking about Athos here then?"

"I didn’t say that!" D'Artagnan back-tracked hurriedly, horrified at his own unwary mouth.

"Oh, then it's Porthos you have your eye on?" Aramis teased, and D’Artagnan blushed.

"Fine. Alright, yes, it’s Athos."

Aramis frowned slightly. "To be honest, I'd rather been under the impression you two had been sleeping together for weeks."

D'Artagnan sighed. "Sleeping, yes. Precious little else."

"Oh." Aramis was surprised. "I see." He studied D'Artagnan more closely, and smiled at him. "Well - do you have reason to think he'd be - receptive?" 

D'Artagnan shifted awkwardly. "He kisses me goodnight?" he offered.

"On the cheek?"

"On the lips," D'Artagnan admitted, in a blushing undertone.

"Well, that's a good start. He'd hardly do that if he was violently opposed to the idea of being close to you." Aramis considered. "Have you tried kissing him back? Properly I mean. As a lover?"

D’Artagnan shook his head and sighed. "What if he hated it?"

"At least you'd know." Aramis felt sorry for him, imagining how frustrated he'd be if he'd been forced to lie next to Porthos night after night without getting screwed senseless once in a while.

"Sorry. You must think I'm awful for wanting such a thing," D’Artagnan muttered, blushing darker than before. 

Aramis blinked. Having been distracted by a memory from the previous night of Porthos' mouth around his cock and two thick fingers up his arse, the idea that D'Artagnan might want Athos to kiss him was hardly scandalous.

He frowned at a realisation. "Athos didn't tell you?" he hazarded.

"Tell me what?"

"That Porthos and I - are sort of, er - together?"

D’Artagnan looked blank. "Together?" The connection finally made, his eyes widened. "Oh! You mean - you're - ?"

Aramis cleared his throat, although his smile was certainly on the smug side. "Yeah."

D'Artagnan grabbed his arm. "Then you can show me!" he demanded eagerly.

"Show you!" Aramis looked startled for the first time, and D’Artagnan realised how it had sounded.

"I meant - teach me. T-tell me!" he stuttered, as Aramis gradually smiled in amusement at his predicament. "What I can do." He frowned. "I mean what is there that two men _can_ do?" he wondered, belatedly letting go his grip on Aramis' arm.

Aramis patted him on the shoulder. "Plenty, trust me." He grinned. "First though, I should find out if he's up for it. Might be a bit much to take him unawares. As it were." He smirked at his own joke, and then sighed as D'Artagnan just looked confused. Aramis was starting to suspect he might have to draw diagrams. One of his lovers in Paris had had a certain collection of illustrated pornographic literature, and he rather wished he'd kept some of it. D’Artagnan would no doubt have found it as illuminating as he had.

"Seriously. Just - kiss the man. See how it goes. Do what feels right."

"See what comes up you mean?" D'Artagnan couldn't resist putting in, with a lopsided smile. He was feeling relieved that Aramis had taken his questioning in his stride, and hadn't been disgusted. The thought that Aramis was already doing as a matter of course the kind of things his mind had been supplying as a distant possibility was also something of a turn on.

They stared at each other a little too long, until D’Artagnan blushed and looked away. He was honestly smitten with Athos, but at the same time the idea of being with someone who knew what he was doing - D’Artagnan cleared his throat and straightened his tunic. 

"Thanks," he said quickly, and hurried in towards the house.

Aramis watched him go, uncomfortably aware of the fact he now had a nagging erection and hoping D'Artagnan hadn't noticed. He went to find Porthos instead and finally ran him to ground him in the cellars, cornering him against some barrels and kissing him insistently by way of hello.

Porthos grinned at him, surprised and pleased. "What's got into you?"

Aramis shrugged. "I'm just - suddenly really horny," he confessed, dropping his voice and sliding his fingers underneath Porthos' shirt to trail across his warm skin. 

"Winning obviously agrees with you." Porthos kissed him back. "We'd better sort you out then," he offered, and dropped obligingly to his knees.

Aramis braced himself against the barrels and guiltily pushed the lingering image of D’Artagnan out of his mind as Porthos proceeded to suck him off.

\--

In bed that night, D’Artagnan faced Athos with a squirming stomach and a heart that was beating a little faster than normal. Athos kissed him goodnight as usual, then frowned at D’Artagnan’s intent expression. 

"Is everything alright?" Athos asked solicitously.

"Yes. I just - can I - " 

Giving up on trying to find words, D'Artagnan leaned in and kissed Athos again, holding it a moment longer than Athos had. He pulled back in slight trepidation, relieved to find Athos’ expression was a frown of curiosity but not censure. 

"D'Artagnan?" Athos ventured.

D'Artagnan kissed him again and this time didn’t immediately pull back, keeping up the soft pressure of his lips. Hesitantly, Athos raised a gentle hand to rest on his shoulder and duly encouraged, D’Artagnan parted his lips against Athos’ mouth.

Instinctively Athos followed suit, and they moved from a press of lips to a slow kiss, their tongues finally sliding together with a shiver of transgression. 

Gradually the kiss became deeper, more intent, and D'Artagnan could feel himself getting hard. He put his hands on Athos' shoulders and guided him down to the bed, still kissing, distantly surprised that Athos should let himself be manoeuvred without complaint.

It was only when D’Artagnan moved to straddle his legs that Athos gasped and reached up to stop him. 

"D’Artagnan, no, I - " he broke off as D'Artagnan settled against his crotch. Athos realised his shame at D'Artagnan discovering he was aroused was ill founded, as D’Artagnan was, if anything, harder than he was.

"Athos?" D'Artagnan prompted, unsure now that Athos had tried to stop him. "No?"

Athos took a shaking breath, and held his arms out to D'Artagnan. "Yes," he breathed, and D’Artagnan kissed him again, bringing their bodies together as he lay against him.

They were both wearing long, concealing nightshirts but these somehow only served to emphasise how turned on they both were, the material tented obscenely over their matching erections. 

D’Artagnan rolled to one side and pulled Athos on top of him, eager for him to take control. Athos obliged by thrusting against him and D'Artagnan groaned his approval. 

They pushed against each other with instinctive and unpractised haste, silent and breathless and without looking at each other. It was fast and slightly desperate and both came within a few minutes, spilling their release into their tangled nightshirts. 

After a rather dazed moment slumped against each other, they pulled apart in an awkward silence and wordlessly changed into clean linens. 

Worried that he’d taken things too far and damaged their relationship, as they climbed back into bed D’Artagnan was relieved beyond measure when Athos held out his arms to him. He settled into them gratefully, and didn’t think he’d imagined the brief look of matching relief in Athos’ eyes when he did so.

"Are you shocked?" D’Artagnan asked quietly, when they’d lain there in sleepy and more comfortable silence for a while.

Athos kissed his hair then, and smiled. "Surprised, is maybe a better word for it," he murmured. "Pleasantly so. Is this truly what you want?"

"Yes." D’Artagnan turned and kissed him on the mouth. "Do you?"

Athos nodded, and D'Artagnan relaxed. 

"I had never dared hope - " Athos faltered, and smiled at him wonderingly. "Thank you."

D'Artagnan smiled back, brightly and full of hopeful delight, and kissed him once again.

\--

For a while things went along very well, and if D'Artagnan at times wished Athos would be a little more demonstrative in his affection or occasionally instigate things for himself, he was at least in no doubt as to Athos' feelings for him.

D'Artagnan had hoped that the tender shyness that characterised their nights together would naturally evolve into the rather more vigorous lovemaking that Aramis had hinted at, or for that matter that he had indulged in himself with a certain number of women prior to their union. But Athos remained oddly reluctant to take charge in the bedroom and D'Artagnan found himself gradually becoming more and more frustrated. 

While Athos always proved willing to go along with whatever he suggested, D'Artagnan became increasingly worried that Athos was only humouring him. 

With no-one else to turn to, after a few weeks of this D'Artagnan found himself again seeking out Aramis for advice. Having picked an afternoon when Athos and Porthos had ridden out to town on business and they were sure not to be interrupted, D'Artagnan went to find Aramis in the study.

"Can I talk to you?" D’Artagnan hesitated in the doorway, seeing Aramis was working on account books. "I can come back if you're busy."

"No, come in." Aramis smiled up at him, and stretched. "Any distraction from the dog's breakfast that represents the last five years' of Athos' haphazard book-keeping is very welcome."

D'Artagnan edged further into the room. "It's - sort of personal." 

"Right." Aramis tried to look serious and not at all amused. "I see. Yes, alright."

D’Artagnan promptly looked lost for words, and Aramis took pity on him. "How - are things?" he coaxed. 

"Fine," D'Artagnan said automatically.

"Oh."

"What?"

"Well, when people say fine they generally mean anything but, don't you find?"

Aramis wasn't entirely without curiosity; what D'Artagnan and Athos had been getting up to had been subject to a certain amount of speculation between himself and Porthos. Although if D'Artagnan was minded to confide in him, he wouldn't break that trust. "It will go no further, I promise."

D'Artagnan sighed. "No, it's - " he struggled for another word, and couldn't find one. "Fine. Really. We're - it's nice."

"Only nice?" Aramis said shrewdly. "Not, say, mindblowing?"

D'Artagnan hid a smile, catching his eye and quickly looking away. "I suppose I had hoped for something more. Although I don't know what." He glanced back at Aramis and blushed. "You wouldn't happen to have any suggestions would you?"

Aramis grinned. "Tips you mean? Spice things up a little? Have you considered tying him up?" 

D'Artagnan choked and Aramis made a mental note that some things might be a step too far for those without his and Porthos' sense of filthy enquiry. The memory of Porthos with his wrists lashed to the bedframe while Aramis teased his cock through seven circles of heaven and hell was one he liked to return to on a regular basis.

"Maybe not that then." He patted D'Artagnan's hand. "Why don’t we start from the beginning. What _are_ you doing? I presume you are actually having sex now?"

D’Artagnan frowned. "How do you mean?" he asked cagily, unwilling to admit he wasn't exactly sure what Aramis meant.

"Well." It was Aramis' turn to hesitate. It occurred to him that while neither he nor Porthos had been with a man previously to each other, they'd both been aware it went on, and if nothing else had known enough lurid army songs to figure out the basics. D’Artagnan though - he wondered. It was hardly a subject of polite conversation. 

Aramis leaned forward and whispered in his ear for a moment and D’Artagnan’s eyes widened, although there was a certain amount of speculation mixed in with his look of shock.

"Well - no, we've not been - doing that," he stammered. "Wouldn't it hurt?" he asked sceptically.

Aramis smirked. "Not if you're doing it right. Take it slowly," he advised. "And use something for lubrication. Personally, I've found a little olive oil works wonders."

D'Artagnan made a face. "I'm never eating anything you've cooked, ever again."

Aramis spluttered indignantly. "We keep some separately, thank you very much!" He finally realised D'Artagnan was winding him up and subsided into laughter. "Seriously. It can be - incredible. Can't you talk to him about it?"

D'Artagnan gave him a meaningful look, and Aramis sighed. "I take your point." He couldn’t imagine initiating such a conversation with Athos, he had to admit. He felt momentarily sorry for D’Artagnan - his own explorations with Porthos had been full of laughter and teasing. Undignified positions and the occasional inadvertent and embarrassing noise meant it could hardly have been otherwise, but Aramis had a hard time imagining Athos being as relaxed. He was hard pressed to remember a time he'd ever heard the man laugh. 

"Well." Aramis considered. "You could just - show him? If you prepared yourself ahead of time, it would be easy enough. He does get - " Aramis waved his hand awkwardly, "hard, right?"

"Oh, yes." D'Artagnan nodded hurriedly, blushing. "No problems there." He sighed. "Our main trouble seems to be that we both want it, we're just not sure what 'it' is." He frowned a little suspiciously. "What do you mean, prepare myself?" he asked, suddenly realising Aramis meant something more specific than open legs and gritted teeth.

As Aramis explained, D'Artagnan found himself fidgeting. Aramis was matter of fact about it, not trying to be deliberately suggestive or seductive, but D'Artagnan's dick was definitely showing signs of interest. He cleared his throat and tried to lean nonchalantly back against a sideboard, only to spring up again as he realised the position outlined the line of his erection against his breeches.

D'Artagnan sighed, frustrated and uncomfortably aroused. He wanted to try what Aramis was suggesting, but he also wanted to try it with someone who both knew what he was doing and knew that D'Artagnan didn’t. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of Athos. 

"It would be a lot easier if you just - showed me?" D'Artagnan murmured speculatively, eyes lowered but every fibre of his being tensed. He wasn't sure how Aramis would react.

Aramis studied him, taken aback by the suggestion. At first he wasn't entirely sure if D'Artagnan had meant it the way it sounded - then his searching eyes realised how turned on he was, and swallowed.

"That - would be a bad idea," he said carefully.

D'Artagnan looked up then, fixing on the fact it hadn't been a straight no. Aramis gazed back at him, and they were silent for a moment. D'Artagnan instinctively sensed that if he pushed the matter, Aramis would cave. That he was open to persuasion. Aramis was right, it was an incredibly bad idea, but right now all D'Artagnan could think about was how horny he was, and how Aramis was so handsome and kind and experienced.

"Just - show me what to do," D'Artagnan pleaded under his breath. "You don’t even have to touch me if you don’t want to. I just - I want to get it right." He bit his lip and lowered his eyes again and Aramis cursed him silently, wondering if he was doing it deliberately or was just this infuriatingly attractive by accident.

"Please Aramis?"

"Oh - very well," Aramis conceded with apparent reluctance, but the obvious flash of pleasure from D'Artagnan left him guiltily flattered. "We need to find somewhere to go. Not your bed, and not mine," he said firmly.

"One of the rooms on the second floor then," D’Artagnan said immediately. "There's still beds in some of them."

"Meet me up there." Aramis nodded and left the room quickly, leaving D'Artagnan to go up alone.

He was half afraid Aramis wouldn’t come, but he appeared a few minutes later holding a small bottle, his expression both wary and guiltily eager.

"Are you sure about this?" Aramis asked.

"Don't you want to?"

Aramis hesitated, smiling despite himself. There was something very disarming about D'Artagnan's simple needy directness. 

"This is strictly - instructional, yes?" Aramis said carefully. 

"Of course." 

They held each other's gaze, both knowing they were lying. 

D'Artagnan looked away first. "So, instruct me," he said quietly, hand fussing nervously with his collar.

Aramis closed the door and looked for a key without finding one. Still, Athos and Porthos wouldn't be back for hours. He told himself they weren’t doing anything wrong, that he was only helping out a friend in need. Half believed it. The other half was honest enough to acknowledge the thrill of this was so much sharper exactly because it was so illicit.

"Take off your clothes then."

D'Artagnan stripped, climbing onto the bed. His embarrassment at Aramis seeing he was already hard was doing nothing to discourage his erection.

Aramis held out the bottle he was holding. "Here. Put some on your fingers."

D’Artagnan, rather than take the bottle, took hold of Aramis' hand and drew him down to the bed. "Show me," he breathed. Aramis swallowed. He was rock hard himself by now, and knew D'Artagnan could hardly fail to notice.

He pushed back his sleeves and poured oil over his fingers, forcing them not to shake. "Lie back. And - uh - that's it." Aramis nodded approval as D'Artagnan splayed his knees wide, lifting one leg to the side until Aramis was sitting between them. 

D'Artagnan held his breath. Aramis sat poised with glistening fingers for a second before shaking his head. "This is no good. You're too tense." 

Aramis moved his hand, not between D'Artagnan's legs but to circle his cock with slippery fingers.

D’Artagnan let out a gasping moan and bucked into his touch. He hadn't expected this, had been resigned to Aramis remaining aloof and clinical. Aramis worked him slowly, his own cock pressing uncomfortably against the seam of his breeches. D'Artagnan was writhing shamelessly under his touch, pushing into his hand with an eagerness that made Aramis groan inwardly with temptation.

Suddenly D'Artagnan sat up and kissed him. For a long, heart-thumping moment they kissed each other desperately hard, clinging to each other, lips and teeth clashing as they gave in to what they'd wanted to do ever since entering the room.

It was Aramis who pulled away first, pushing D’Artagnan back gently. 

"We can't," he said softly. "You know we can't."

D’Artagnan gave a shaky nod, recovering his breath and licking his lips. "I'm sorry," he breathed.

Aramis shook his head. "You don't - it's okay." They exchanged a guilty smile. "Lie back," Aramis said, shifting position to lean over him. "Let me show you."

D'Artagnan caught his breath as Aramis' hand slipped between his legs, slick fingers exploring him, rubbing gently over his entrance. It felt good, better than he'd expected, and he pushed against Aramis' hand, making him laugh.

"Easy now." Aramis gradually worked one finger inside him, first to the knuckle, then all the way in. D’Artagnan grunted but shook his head when Aramis looked at him.

"Don't stop."

Aramis slowly stretched him open, easing a second finger inside him, the oil trickling down to stain the sheets below. When his fingers brushed a certain place inside him D’Artagnan moaned in surprise.

"Aramis!" He looked so surprised Aramis laughed.

"Feel good?" 

D’Artagnan nodded, too shocked to speak. Aramis let his fingers find the place again, rubbing inside him until D'Artagnan was shaking with need. 

Aramis withdrew his fingers, ignoring D'Artagnan's moan of protest, instead taking D’Artagnan’s hand in his and dripping oil liberally over his fingers.

"Now you," he whispered. "Touch yourself. Understand how it feels, how to open yourself. For Athos," he added, as much to remind himself as D’Artagnan. 

Watching D'Artagnan with his flushed cheeks, hair falling over his face, fingers working between his legs, Aramis dug his nails into his palm. He wanted him so badly it hurt.

D'Artagnan looked up. "Show me the rest," he breathed unsteadily. "I need to know - how to - you know. What it's like."

Aramis shook his head, groping for words, but D'Artagnan reached out and stroked a hand over Aramis' groin, fingers following the swollen length of his cock. Silently telling him he knew.

Aramis unbuttoned his breeches without a word, knowing it was futile to argue that he didn't want this when it was so obvious he did. D'Artagnan moved forward eagerly, but Aramis stopped him with a touch. 

"We'll do this. So you know what to expect. But you need to be pretending I'm Athos."

"I don’t want to," D'Artagnan whispered, and Aramis heart ached even as his cock throbbed with approval. 

"You have to," Aramis maintained. "You can't - _we_ can't - do you understand?"

D'Artagnan nodded and Aramis moved his hand, letting D'Artagnan crawl into his lap.

Supported by Aramis' strong arms, he lowered himself slowly onto Aramis' cock. D'Artagnan groaned at the feeling, clinging to him as Aramis massaged his back and hugged him, and whispered encouragingly to him, slowly easing inside.

Overwhelmed at first, D'Artagnan gradually became accustomed to the sensation and started to move, rising and falling with Aramis' help until he was riding him with a certain jerky rhythm. 

They fucked each other harder and faster, until finally Aramis cracked and captured D’Artagnan’s mouth in a passionate kiss. D’Artagnan groaned his approval, kissing back fiercely and Aramis suddenly reversed their positions, laying D’Artagnan down on the bed and thrusting into him from on top. 

Aramis could feel D'Artagnan's cock pushing into the folds of his shirt and wished he'd had time to disrobe completely, although there was something all the more arousing about being fully dressed with D'Artagnan sprawled naked beneath him. 

D’Artagnan came first, spilling over Aramis' chest and Aramis quickly followed suit. D'Artagnan groaned out loud at the feeling of the hot seed spurting inside him, clinging to Aramis as they both rode it out, panting hard and damp with sweat and oil and come. 

Afterwards, Aramis watched D'Artagnan dress in silence, suddenly awkward at the realisation of what they'd done, and how many of their true feelings they'd inadvertently revealed. 

As they were about to leave, D'Artagnan could bear it no longer and seized Aramis' arm. The awful thought had occurred to him that perhaps Aramis had only done this because D'Artagnan was technically his employer, and he felt he couldn’t say no.

"Aramis. We are still friends?" 

To his relief, Aramis' tense posture softened and he unexpectedly took D'Artagnan into his arms, realising his preoccupation had been taken for coldness. 

"Of course. Always." 

"Thank you. For - everything." D'Artagnan kissed him, softly, and Aramis let him. Praying that everything would work out. 

\--

Athos and Porthos returned just after nightfall, and their news from the town and talk of the goods they'd brought back occupied conversation safely for the evening. Neither appeared to notice that D’Artagnan was more restless and Aramis quieter than normal, and everyone retired to bed early.

Porthos automatically followed Aramis into his room and climbed into bed with him, yawning tiredly. It had been a good day; he enjoyed Athos' company immensely and was honoured that Athos seemed to feel the same. Even so, it had been a long ride and he was glad to be home.

Porthos put his arms round Aramis contentedly and kissed him - only to pull back after a moment with a questioning frown.

"What's wrong?" Aramis looked up at him with a sleepy smile, running his hands admiringly over Porthos' biceps.

"You smell like D'Artagnan," said Porthos, confused. 

"Do I?" Aramis aimed for blank innocence and missed by a mile. Porthos frowned suspiciously.

"What have you been up to?"

Aramis laughed, and it sounded nervous even to him. "I - I spent most of the day with him, that's all."

Porthos just looked at him. "I spent most of the day with Athos, I don't have the scent of him in my _hair_." He took a long, considering sniff of Aramis' chest and throat and pulled back again. 

"You reek of him. Aramis?"

"I - " Aramis sat up, wrapping his arms around himself guiltily. "Alright, so we might have been - a little indiscreet."

"Indiscreet!" Porthos exploded, and Aramis winced. Porthos lowered his voice. "Are you telling me you've fucked him?" he demanded incredulously.

Aramis shrugged defensively. "Maybe," he admitted.

Porthos groaned. "Aramis. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I never said I belonged to you," Aramis muttered, knowing it was a horrible and unfair thing to say but too spikily defensive to admit he might have fucked up. 

Porthos stared at him. "Fine. No. Maybe you don't. But D'Artagnan belongs to Athos and if he finds out - " Porthos' stony expression crumpled a little. "Why, Aramis?"

"He just wanted someone to - teach him. He wanted to be good for Athos."

"Oh you're doing it for him, how sweet," Porthos said sarcastically, then sighed. "Look, you want to sleep with other people, fine, I guess I don’t have a problem with that. But could you maybe pick someone who's not already married? To your employer?"

"I'll see you don’t lose your position if that's what you're worried about," Aramis snapped.

Porthos shook his head impatiently. "I'm more concerned about losing my life!"

Aramis hesitated, defensive words faltering on his lips. "You really think Athos would be that angry?"

"Angry? I think it'd kill him."

"You're overreacting." Aramis shook his head.

"Am I? His wife betrayed him Aramis, how do you think he's going to react if he finds out D’Artagnan has too?"

"It's not the same thing," Aramis protested uncomfortably.

"And he'll see it like that, will he?"

"Then he'd better not find out!" Aramis stared at Porthos with a challenge in his eyes that only half masked the pleading behind it. 

Porthos nodded reluctantly. "He won’t hear it from me. But I wish to God I didn’t know."

Aramis slumped against the pillows defeatedly. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Somehow I just - couldn't say no. Didn't want to say no," he confessed.

"Just promise me you're not going to do it again."

Aramis looked away and Porthos groaned.

"Christ Aramis, tell me you don't imagine you're in love with him."

Aramis fidgeted. "I love you too?"

Porthos looked disgusted. "Great, just what I always wanted, to be somebody's afterthought."

"That's not true," Aramis protested. "I just thought it went without saying." Aramis reached out for him, willing him to understand. "Forgive me?"

"Aramis. I love you. But you can be a selfish bastard at times." Porthos shook his head but let Aramis pull him into his arms. "Did you let him fuck you?"

"No. Other way round."

"Good. Because you're wrong. You do belong to me. And I'm going to show you exactly why," Porthos growled, and Aramis kissed him hard in relief, letting Porthos bear him roughly down to the bed. 

\--

D'Artagnan lingered in the dressing room that lead off the main bedroom, nerves and anticipation making him feel quite lightheaded. Athos was already in bed and waiting for him, and D'Artagnan had spent the last few minutes attempting to replicate with clumsy fingers what Aramis had shown him earlier. 

He'd washed, carefully and scrupulously all over, and now he was as ready as he was ever going to be. He hesitated, taking a calming breath, and walked out into the bedroom.

Athos looked up as he came in, and then did such a double take that D'Artagnan almost laughed. He was naked and already hard, and Athos seemingly couldn't tear his eyes away. 

"Well." Athos cleared his throat, rather lost for words as D'Artagnan joined him on the bed, crawling towards him with a mischievously intent look on his face. "Hello."

D'Artagnan grinned at that, and kissed him, and Athos, after a moment's hesitation over where to put his hands, returned his affections.

"Hello," D'Artagnan murmured back, straddling his legs and pushing Athos' nightshirt slowly up his thighs. He wrapped a hand around Athos' rapidly stiffening cock and stroked him speculatively.

"May I?" D'Artagnan asked, lips brushing Athos' mouth, feeling him shudder against him.

"Anything," Athos breathed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as D'Artagnan continued to stroke him with a firm hand. "Please. I'm yours."

D'Artagnan kissed him again, and reached for the oil he'd set ready, relieved Athos hadn't moved it out of curiosity while he'd been gone.

He carefully poured some into his hand and continued slowly working Athos' erection until he was fully hard and slickly wet. Other than an initial blink of surprise Athos had made no protest, assuming D'Artagnan had a purpose in mind and willing enough to wait and see what it was. 

Only when D’Artagnan raised himself up on his knees and awkwardly positioned himself over Athos' groin did he reach out to instinctively stay his movement.

"I'll hurt you," Athos breathed in concern, shaking his head slightly.

"No. You won't," D'Artagnan said tightly, trying to co-ordinate steadying both Athos' cock and himself at the same time and beginning to wish he had plucked up the courage to tell Athos what he intended first.

Athos though was by no means slow on the uptake, and once he'd divined what D'Artagnan meant to do and that he was determined to do it, came to his assistance, trusting that D'Artagnan knew what he was doing.

D'Artagnan sank carefully down onto him, stifling a pained grunt and hoping Athos hadn't noticed. He'd fingered himself open as best he could, and to a certain extent was still relatively loose from earlier - but what he hadn't taken into account was that he was also still _sore_ from earlier, and that Athos' cock was thicker than Aramis' had been.

D’Artagnan unconsciously bit his lip, hands clenched on Athos' shoulders as he eased down. His mental image of this being a smooth and confident display of prowess had rather gone out the window, but Athos was watching him with a look of naked wonder, and somehow D'Artagnan found this was even better than he'd imagined.

"Are you alright?" Athos whispered, when D'Artagnan was effectively sitting in his lap, Athos buried to the balls inside of him.

D'Artagnan nodded, unable to speak for a moment, and Athos kissed him softly. "Do you need to get off again?" he murmured, holding him close, conscious that D'Artagnan might have overreached himself and not wanting his pride to make him continue if it was hurting him.

"Give me a second," D'Artagnan panted, and Athos nodded, kissing him again and stroking his hair reassuringly. For some time Athos had harboured a guilty fantasy about getting D'Artagnan to take _him_ like this, but had kept silent for fear D'Artagnan would be scandalised, or worse, disgusted. 

Perhaps after this, D'Artagnan could be persuaded to repeat the performance in reverse, Athos thought. If he could find the courage to ask. He'd never found it easy to talk about what he wanted. Athos had spent so long hating himself, he still hadn't entirely got over the sense of astonishment that someone as young and vital and attractive as D'Artagnan should want him like this. He lived in fear of D'Artagnan becoming fed up and moving on, and at the same time half expected nothing less. 

Now though, D'Artagnan had started to move, finding his initial discomfort warming into a pleasant ache that made him tingle all over. Athos let him find his rhythm, trying to suppress the urge to push up into him until D'Artagnan was breathing more easily and smiling again.

"Alright?" Athos asked with a questioning smile, and D'Artagnan kissed him, hair falling down over both their faces, moving in earnest now, fucking himself on Athos' hard cock and feeling the pleasure building inside him, wave upon wave.

Athos kissed him back, firm lips and tongue softly insistent in his mouth, reaching between them to curl a hand around D'Artagnan's own cock and start stroking him in time with the rise and fall of their bodies.

Their breathing was ragged by now, both close to the edge, their desire too urgent to make it last. D'Artagnan scrabbled at Athos' nightshirt where it was rucked up around his waist and together they fumbled it off over his head, cleaving together again, chest to chest, no space or time for words.

D'Artagnan came first, the slip-tug of Athos' hand around him coupled with way he was driving himself down onto Athos’ cock pushed him past his limits of restraint and he splattered his release all over Athos' chest.

It was enough to send Athos over the brink, spending into D'Artagnan's still rocking body and burying his face in D'Artagnan's shoulder with a muffled sigh of completion.

Gingerly they untangled themselves, and D'Artagnan was grateful to this time be able to lie down and recover for a while, wrapped in Athos' warm arms.

"You're full of surprises," Athos murmured, kissing him on the temple. 

D'Artagnan turned to kiss him back, mostly so he didn't have to think of an answer. He knew that if he hadn't done what he'd done with Aramis, that this wouldn't have gone anywhere near as well, if it had happened at all. He tried to justify it to himself on those grounds, knowing all the while that he was fooling himself, that Athos would hardly see it that way. Still. It had worked out alright.

He sighed, and Athos hugged him closer. "Is something wrong?" Athos asked, thinking that D'Artagnan was uncommonly quiet, for him.

"Just tired." D'Artagnan smiled at him. "I love you," he said suddenly. "I want you to know that."

Athos frowned curiously, then smiled back, deciding that D'Artagnan was clearly just overwrought after what they'd done. "I love you too," he murmured, and drew D'Artagnan into a lingering kiss.

\--

For a while, things carried on as normal in the house, and if there were small ripples in the smooth surface of the day to day life of its inhabitants, they were only noticeable to different people.

Porthos took to carrying out small acts of kindness towards Athos, serving him the best portions of meat, filling his glass when it was empty, cleaning his tack and his boots without being asked. Athos was duly appreciative, but seemed too preoccupied with D'Artagnan to notice anything particularly out of the ordinary. Aramis noticed, but said nothing.

For a few days Aramis and D'Artagnan avoided each other, then gradually began a distant and discreet flirtation; nothing open, just glances across a room, the brush of a hand, an occasional hidden smile. 

Porthos watched this with a sick heart, but there was never anything overt he could challenge Aramis on and so he kept his silence. Athos was happy, happier than he'd ever been, and Porthos was determined to do nothing to change that. As long as Aramis and D'Artagnan kept their distance from each other, as they seemed to be - he would let it pass.

There had been a few occasions where Athos had invited Porthos to go riding with him and Porthos had declined, unwilling to leave Aramis and D'Artagnan alone together. Gradually though, as a couple of weeks passed and he had no further cause for suspicion, Porthos wondered if his own jealousy was making him unjust. So when Athos asked him again, on a particularly warm and sunny afternoon, to join him in a trip to the nearest town, Porthos accepted gladly.

Across the room, Aramis could feel the weight of D'Artagnan's gaze, but walked out without looking round.

They'd been gone a while, when the door to the study was pushed slowly open. Aramis looked up, and regarded D'Artagnan silently. He'd somehow known he would come. Hadn't been able to concentrate on any of the paperwork before him, listening for footsteps in the passage outside. He got slowly to his feet, and D'Artagnan came forward to meet him.

"I was wondering," D'Artagnan said in a low voice. "If there was - anything else, you could show me?"

Aramis wondered if it sounded as much like an excuse to D'Artagnan as it did to him. But the pretence - made it possible. He wasn't proud of what he knew they were going to do. But he'd also resigned himself to the fact they were going to do it. A thrill-seeker by nature, he'd been cooped up here in this house with only the other three for company for months, and he craved a new rush however self-destructive it might be. Perhaps just for that reason.

And so he took D'Artagnan into his arms without argument, and kissed him.

\--

Athos and Porthos were only a few miles away when Porthos realised there was something wrong with his horse. He dismounted quickly, calling to Athos, who watched in concern as Porthos made a careful examination.

He soon straightened up with a sigh, patting the horse's neck. "She's thrown a shoe. I'd better walk her back. Sorry, you'll have to go on alone."

Athos shook his head and slid to the ground beside him. "I'll come with you. There was nothing so urgent to be done that it can't wait a day or so."

Porthos smiled at him in pleased surprise, and they turned homewards, walking unhurriedly back along the road in quiet conversation.

They reached the estate in just under an hour and returned the horses to the stable, checking both carefully for any other loose shoes or nails. Entering the house, all was quiet, and Porthos emerged from the deserted kitchen shaking his head in bemusement only to find Athos halfway up the stairs.

"I can hear voices," Athos called down. "I think they're upstairs." He smiled. "They'll be surprised to see us back so soon."

The responding smile froze on Porthos' face. They wouldn't be that stupid. Would they? 

"Athos! Athos, wait! Let me go," Porthos cried out in sudden alarm, pelting up the stairs behind him and seized by a sense of stomach-turning dread.

He was too late, Athos was too far ahead of him, and hearing voices and laughter within had already turned the handle to a disused bedroom off the second floor landing.

The sight that met his eyes made him stop in his tracks. Aramis was sprawled in a chair, his breeches hanging open, D'Artagnan on his knees between Aramis' legs, bending over his lap and sucking on his cock.

They both looked round at Athos' unexpected entrance, D'Artagnan jerking back in dismay. Unfortunately his timing couldn't have been worse, Aramis had been on the brink of orgasm and his spike of horror at seeing Athos undid his last vestige of control and he came right into D'Artagnan's face.

D'Artagnan raised an unsteady hand to wipe the worst of it away, too numb to protest, knowing that Athos' reaction was sure to be far, far worse than any passing indignity. He saw Porthos come to a panting halt behind Athos, and realised with a certain inner shock that his look was one of anger but not surprise. He hadn't realised Porthos knew.

Athos still stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to believe the evidence of his own eyes but knowing there was no possible way the situation could be misconstrued. The most damning thing of all being the look of utter guilt on D'Artagnan's face.

"Athos." D’Artagnan made to get up, and the movement finally caused Athos to unfreeze. He turned, blind and deaf to everything around him and stumbled out of the room, pushing past Porthos without even registering his presence.

"Athos, wait!" D'Artagnan made to follow him, until Porthos stopped him with an outstretched hand slammed into his chest. 

"I have to go after him!" 

Porthos looked at him stonily. "Not looking like that you don't." 

D'Artagnan raised a hand to his face, realising he was still smeared with Aramis' come. "Oh my God." He fell back, scrubbing at his face in mortification. 

Porthos met Aramis' eyes across the room, finding his expression both pleading and devoid of hope. Looked back at D’Artagnan in disgust. "I'll go. You stay here. Both of you. Don't fucking move."

He turned and followed in Athos' footsteps, wondering where he'd gone. At the foot of the stairs the external door stood open and he walked outside, turning instinctively towards the stables. 

Sure enough, Athos was inside, trying to re-saddle his horse with hands that were clearly shaking. When Porthos came in Athos visibly flinched until he saw who it was, then turned back to the harness wordlessly.

Porthos walked over to stand next to him, wondering what in the world he could possibly say.

"Where are you going?"

Athos flicked him a glance, shook his head. "Away. Away from here."

"Where though?"

"I don't know. Anywhere. Does it matter?"

"Athos - don't. Don't go."

"How can I stay? How can I possibly stay here?" Athos sounded almost panicked, more crushed than Porthos could ever remember hearing him, and he mentally cursed Aramis and D'Artagnan to hell and back.

"It's not what you think," he said, knowing it sounded weak.

Athos froze. "Did you _know_?" he asked, quietly, dangerously incredulous. Porthos didn't answer, but that in itself was confirmation enough, and Athos almost sagged against the horse's flank, as if the last prop holding him up had sheared through.

"He was doing it for you," Porthos persisted, having committed himself to the course of action and deciding he might as well see it through. "D'Artagnan. He wanted to be good. For you."

"Is that what he told you?" Athos asked distantly, not looking at him.

"It's what Aramis told me."

"And you believed him?" There was a hint of the old steel edge to his voice now, Athos clearly wondering if Porthos had been screwed over as he had.

"Yes. Kind of. I know it sounds odd." 

Athos had resumed trying to buckle bits of harness on, and Porthos reached over and placed a hand firmly over his. "Athos, stop it."

"I have to go," Athos protested brokenly, but there was no fight in him, and his hand lay still under Porthos'.

"No. You don't." Porthos spread his fingers, taking proper hold of Athos' hand where it was pinned against the saddle, threading their fingers together. Still Athos didn't pull away.

"We can fix this," Porthos said. "They fucked up, but that doesn't have to mean it has to end like this. Don't let it."

"Better off without me," Athos muttered.

"No." Porthos stood firm, forcing Athos to look up at him. "That's not true. Of any of us." He took a shuddering breath. "Don't go Athos. Please."

"Give me one reason why I should stay," Athos said defeatedly.

"D'Artagnan loves you."

Athos laughed, but it was a harsh, ugly sound with no mirth in it. "A reason I can believe."

Porthos swallowed. "I love you," he said quietly.

Athos went still, his eyes tracking up to Porthos' face, a question in his gaze. Porthos just nodded, knowing Athos had heard him. Squeezed Athos' hand where it still lay in his, pinned above his head in what must surely be an uncomfortable position by now, but that Athos had made no move to break free from.

"Don't go," Porthos whispered.

Athos looked round at the horse, standing patiently in the stall. "You - could come with me?" he breathed, not looking at Porthos as he said it.

"I won't walk out on Aramis," Porthos sighed. "And I don't believe you should walk out on D'Artagnan. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but he does care for you. He loves you, Athos. And - and so do I." 

Athos closed his eyes, squeezed them shut for a second before opening them again. Porthos wasn't sure if he was just trying to shut out everything that was happening, or forcing back tears. 

Porthos looked at him consideringly, taking in the way Athos hadn't objected to his declaration, had hardly looked surprised, even. How despite his obvious desire to leave he was still standing here letting Porthos restrain him, and restrain him in a hold with no strength behind it at that. Athos' hand was just resting in his, pliant and submissive.

"D'Artagnan got it wrong, didn't he?" Porthos murmured. "I don’t mean by screwing around, I mean - wanting to please you. Wanting you to approve of him. Take charge of him." He drew Athos' hand down, adjusted his grip to a firmer one. 

"I don’t think you want someone to please you," Porthos whispered, leaning forward to breathe into Athos' ear. "I think you want someone to use you."

He felt a tremor pass through Athos' body, and risked meeting his eyes. Athos looked shaken but didn't deny it, and Porthos moved closer until he was pressing Athos back against the wall of the stable with the whole length of his body. He threaded his free hand through Athos' hair and tilted his head back, leaning in slowly, giving Athos time to object.

Athos let his eyes flutter closed, parting his lips a fraction of a second before Porthos' mouth closed over his. Porthos pulled him fiercely against his body, feeling Athos respond, and kissed him, hard and deep and forceful.

Athos made a noise close to a whimper, pressing into Porthos' rough embrace and letting him kiss him, manhandle him, pin him back against the wall.

They stumbled into an empty stall, tearing at each other's clothes and dropping to the clean straw, Porthos shoving Athos down and climbing astride him. Athos moaned, low in his throat, hard and ready as Porthos pulled down his breeches.

"I'm going to fuck you," Porthos breathed, and Athos let his head fall back, exposing his throat, panting as hard as if he'd been running. 

"Yes. God, yes."

Porthos felt blindly along the wooden struts of the stall until his hand closed around the jar of oil he knew was there somewhere. They used it for keeping the leather tack supple and free from cracks, but it would serve perfectly well for this purpose too. He sensed Athos wanted this to be rough and uncompromising, but there was no point in hurting him unnecessarily. 

Athos lay pliant beneath him as Porthos anointed his cock with the contents of the jar. Porthos pushed his legs apart, pulling Athos forward and positioning himself between them, hooking Athos' knees up around his hips. 

Athos groaned deeply as blunt, slick fingers pushed inside him, stretching and scissoring, filling him with a shameful rush of pleasure. 

When Porthos finally pushed inside him Athos cried out, and Porthos belatedly realised he'd probably never done this before. He'd have backed off, but Athos grabbed him and met his eyes, and the look of need on his face took Porthos' breath away.

"Please," Athos said hoarsely. 

Porthos took him at his word and pounded into him, hard and fast and brutal, making Athos cry out with every thrust. The sounds he was making were animal and desperate and exultant, and they drove Porthos on to ever harder strokes, grinding into Athos' body with an unrestrained abandon. 

Athos came suddenly, with a shuddering spasm, pressing his own wrist against his mouth to stifle the scream that threatened to break out of him. Porthos spilled inside him seconds later, the clenching of Athos' body around his cock too much to withstand.

Taking raw, heaving breaths, Porthos pulled out carefully and collapsed next to Athos, abruptly afraid that he'd hurt him, or gone too far. Athos though, reached for his hand and squeezed it, still beyond speech but needing to let Porthos know everything was alright.

Porthos pulled him into his arms and they just lay there in the straw recovering their strength, Athos' head resting on Porthos' chest, Porthos stroking his hair quietly. 

Porthos' thoughts inevitably drifted back to those left indoors, and winced inwardly. Behaving as badly as the others had was hardly the way to fix things.

"We probably shouldn’t have done this, should we?" he sighed.

Athos gave him a wry look. "And yet, I can't bring myself to regret it," he said.

Porthos kissed him, letting his forehead rest against Athos' for a moment. "They'll be wondering where we are."

"Let them," Athos said carelessly, then sighed. "Although, you're right." He rolled over until he was looking down at Porthos, fingers splayed across his chest. 

"You do realise, if we go back in there, we can never do this again?" Athos said quietly.

Porthos nodded reluctantly. "I know. It wouldn't be right."

Athos gave him a sad smile. "How is it you understand me so much better than he does?" 

"We're the same, you and I." Porthos pulled Athos back down into his arms. "Pragmatic. Down to earth. D'Artagnan - Aramis - they're romantics. They need us, to keep them grounded. And we need them. To remind us to look up once in a while," Porthos said wistfully.

Athos looked at him in slight surprise. "You should have been a poet," he murmured.

Porthos laughed. "Come here." They kissed each other, one last time, lingering and warm, then pulled their clothes back on and stood up. Porthos pulled a piece of straw out of Athos' hair, and they nodded at each other.

Athos considered how he felt. The earlier weight of despair had gone, washed away by the pain and the ecstasy that had wrung out his body. Where before he had felt numb, now he felt - contained. If not quite fine, then at least able to cope.

"Alright." Athos set his shoulders. "Let's go back." 

\--

They found Aramis and D'Artagnan in the room where they'd left them, and both jumped to their feet looking anxious as they walked in. There was a tense silence, and everybody looked at each other, no-one quite willing to be the first to speak.

In the end, it was D’Artagnan who stepped forward, to face Athos. 

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding wretched. Athos looked at him, and while the cynical part of him said that D'Artagnan was mostly sorry for being caught, he recognised that the apology was at least genuine and heartfelt. If D'Artagnan had tried to argue, or defend his actions, he wasn't sure what he would have done. But the simple apology disarmed him, and something inside thawed a little.

Athos held out his arms without a word, and D'Artagnan threw himself into them with a disbelieving gasp that was more than half sob. Athos held him tightly, feeling the tension vibrating through D'Artagnan's body.

His eyes moved to Aramis, standing there silently, and for a moment felt something like a stab of sympathy. He wondered how the man felt, to see D'Artagnan, who less than an hour ago had been in his arms, so publicly renounce him. Wondered how he would have felt if it had been the other way round. In the end he said nothing, just wrapped an arm around D'Artagnan's shoulders and guided him from the room, with a brief nod of acknowledgement to Porthos as he went.

Left alone, Aramis and Porthos stared at each other.

"I don't quite know how you managed that, but - thank you," Aramis said quietly.

"I didn't do it for you. I did it for Athos," Porthos said gruffly.

Aramis bowed his head contritely. "Of course." He paused. "Am I to assume then - I am dismissed from my position?"

Porthos looked startled. "No? At least - he didn't say so. I don't think that was his intention." It occurred to him that in all of this, Athos had never once alluded to the four of them as being anything but equals. 

It was Aramis' turn to look startled. " _No_? I can stay?"

"Yeah. Far as I know. I don't think it even crossed his mind, to be honest."

"You truly are a miracle worker," Aramis breathed, coming across and trying to take Porthos' hand.

"Mmmn." Porthos gave him a hard look and avoided his touch. Aramis fell back a step.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For everything."

Porthos nodded slowly. "If only I believed that," he said tiredly, and turned and left, leaving Aramis staring after him with a look of abject misery.

He slumped against the door frame, and banged his head lightly against the wood. "Fuck."

\--

There was no sign of Athos or D'Artagnan that evening, and Aramis and Porthos ate mostly in silence. For a while afterwards they sat reading, but neither could concentrate and before long Porthos got to his feet.

"I'm going to bed," he muttered. Aramis watched him cross the room, making no move to follow. 

Pausing in the doorway, Porthos looked back at him. His own words to Athos came back to him, that it was up to them to fix this. Imagined a world in which he and Aramis were no longer lovers, and it was a cold and bleak one.

"Coming?" he said quietly. 

Aramis looked slightly surprised. "Do you want me to?"

Porthos nodded, and Aramis came over to him, cautiously. "Porthos?"

"Shhh. Come to bed." Porthos took him into his arms, and they held each other with a fierce relief.

\--

Athos and D'Artagnan too had retired to bed, and while Athos had an arm round him, D'Artagnan was conscious that he was obviously still pre-occupied. 

When he'd attempted to broach the subject earlier, Athos had just shaken his head and said he didn't want to talk about it, but D'Artagnan couldn't help wondering if he was just letting things fester. 

"Are you angry with me?" D’Artagnan asked quietly, nestling against Athos' side and relieved to feel the arm around him tighten possessively.

"No?" Athos looked round at him, dragged out of his own thoughts, and looking vaguely surprised.

"Disappointed in me?" D'Artagnan persisted. It was an accusation that his father had frequently levelled at him when he'd been younger, and he'd come to associate it with being something much worse than simple anger.

Athos though, shook his head. D'Artagnan sighed. "There's _something_ bothering you."

Athos considered him thoughtfully. "There's something I should tell you. I'm just not sure that it won't make things worse."

"I'd rather know," D'Artagnan told him seriously, and Athos sighed, nodding with resignation.

"I - slept with Porthos," Athos admitted quietly.

D'Artagnan sat up. "What? When?"

"This afternoon. When he came after me." 

"Why?" D'Artagnan sounded hurt and confused, and Athos looked at him with a sad smile.

"Because I was angry. And disappointed," he said. And then, because he was too honest not to, added with a sigh, "And because I wanted to."

"I see." D'Artagnan processed this for a moment. "Do you love him?"

"Do you love Aramis?" Athos countered.

D'Artagnan fidgeted. "I don't know. Maybe."

Athos took his hand. "Would you rather be with him?"

"No." D'Artagnan shook his head. "Would you rather be with Porthos?" he asked hesitantly.

Athos shook his head too, and D'Artagnan took him into his arms with relief, and they kissed each other for a long time.

\--

 

Aramis and Porthos lay in each others' arms, their minds churning too much for either to sleep. 

Finally, Porthos made up his mind and took a deep breath. "Aramis?"

"Mmmn?" Aramis looked up, glad to be distracted from his own remorseful thoughts.

"There's something I need to tell you."

"Oh yes?" Aramis said warily, picking up on the reluctance in Porthos' tone and wondering what was coming.

There was a pause. 

"I fucked Athos."

Aramis blinked. "You what? When?"

"Earlier."

"Did he want you to?"

"Of course he bloody wanted me to, what kind of person do you take me for?" Porthos demanded indignantly.

Aramis winced. "No - I didn't mean it like that - I mean he didn't - make you - ?"

"No!" Porthos glared at him, and Aramis held up his hands in apology. He'd only meant to be concerned for Porthos, but clearly everything he said was going to come out wrong and he should probably just shut up. 

Porthos subsided a little, cross with himself for the over-reaction and knowing he was being defensive. 

"Sorry. Go on. When - when was this?" Aramis suddenly wondered if Porthos' trips to town with Athos had been a little more than business. 

"This afternoon. After you and - yeah." 

"Oh. I see." Aramis stared at his hands. "You fucked him?"

"In the stables."

Aramis' lips twitched. "Never heard it called that before," he murmured.

Porthos shot him a look. "Don't," he warned, but he was fighting back a smile.

They were silent for a moment. 

"Do you mind?" Porthos prompted eventually.

Aramis sighed. "I can hardly complain, can I? Don't have a leg to stand on."

"That's not what I asked."

Aramis looked at him consideringly. "You care for him, don't you?" he asked quietly. "A lot. Before - when you first found out I'd been with D'Artagnan - you weren't angry for your own sake. It was all him." Aramis hesitated. "Do you love him?"

Porthos nodded slowly. "We're not - it won't happen again. We agreed on that." 

Aramis moved closer, resting a hand on Porthos' arm. "I'm sorry," he murmured. Porthos covered Aramis' hand with his own.

"Are we good?" he asked quietly.

"Always." Aramis kissed him then, and they held each other close. 

"Did you really fuck him?" Aramis asked after a while, never having been able to leave well enough alone in his life.

Porthos snorted. "Yes."

"Tell me?" Aramis whispered, kissing his way along Porthos' shoulder.

Porthos looked at him, realising he was serious and suppressing a smile. Trust Aramis to be turned on by the idea of sex he wasn't even involved in.

He rolled over, pinning Aramis beneath him. "I was rough," Porthos breathed. "Held him down, in the straw. Fucked him so hard I thought he might break." Aramis groaned under his breath, and Porthos could feel his cock stiffening against his stomach.

Aramis pulled Porthos down and kissed him with a lot of tongue, wrapping his legs around him insistently. 

"Show me," he whispered.

\--

The next morning, the four gathered around the kitchen table for a meal with a wary politeness.

After a few minutes of stilted conversation, it was Athos who sighed, and leaned back in his chair, drawing their attention.

"Can we just - start again?" he asked quietly. "I'm not suggesting we pretend none of it ever happened, but - I would at least like us still to be friends?"

The other three exchanged glances, and nodded fervently. After that, the atmosphere was noticeably lighter, if not exactly a return to previous form. Porthos and D'Artagnan as the most naturally talkative, found themselves to their surprise determinedly propping up the conversation together, and by the end of the meal were feeling considerably more warmly inclined to each other than they'd been at the start.

As they left the room, Aramis followed Athos, knowing there was still something he had to say.

"Athos."

Athos stopped, reluctantly waiting for Aramis to catch up. 

"I owe you an apology." Aramis held his gaze solemnly. "For what happened. I - have no defence. It was inexcusable."

Athos hesitated, then nodded. "Apology accepted," he said quietly, and Aramis relaxed a little. Athos frowned. "It's possible that - I also owe you one," he said cautiously.

Aramis gave a rueful laugh. "Ah, yes. Porthos told me."

"I thought he might." Athos gave him an awkward look. "Sorry."

Aramis sighed. "Well. Can hardly blame you," he said lightly, and they both offered each other a tentative smile. 

"I did wonder - if you might want me to leave?" Aramis said, not wanting to put the idea in Athos' head, but needing to know where he stood. To his relief, Athos looked genuinely surprised.

"Hardly. For one thing, Porthos would never forgive me," Athos said with a slight smile. He sighed. "Seriously though - I spent so long here alone - I suppose I always knew that letting people back into my life wasn't going to be without its complications. I've found - and I admit this came as a surprise - it's still better than being alone. And besides - I like you. Most of the time."

Aramis laughed then, and offered his hand. Athos shook it without hesitation. 

"Like I said," Athos murmured. "Let's just - start again. Can we?"

Aramis nodded, and after a moment the two men embraced with a genuine warmth. 

\--

Things were - manageable. For a while the atmosphere was if not tense then at least tangibly careful, as people watched their words and second-guessed their actions, but as time went by they gradually relaxed back into more comfortable relationships. 

They worked at it, all of them, sensing how close they'd come to breaking what they had, and starting to realise for the first time how much they valued it. 

It came as a surprise then, when one day Athos seemed to go into a sudden decline of spirits. Uncommunicative and mostly silent all morning, he started drinking early and shut himself up in his old suite of rooms, refusing to acknowledge the increasingly concerned enquiries of the others.

Downstairs they conferred, D'Artagnan pacing the drawing room anxiously. Even in the rockiest days following the end to his liaison with Aramis, Athos had never abandoned him for his own rooms like this. It had been a long time since he'd faced the prospect of sleeping alone.

"Can't you talk to him?" D'Artagnan asked Porthos pleadingly. "You always seem to know what to say to him better than I do."

"Well maybe it's time you learnt," Porthos said shortly. "Maybe if you'd spent more time trying to talk to him before, a lot of unnecessary things wouldn't have happened."

D'Artagnan stared at him, stricken and angry, before turning on his heel and marching out of the room.

"That was a little harsh," Aramis said neutrally.

"Was it?" Porthos bristled. "Or did it just need saying?"

Aramis reached out, stroking his shoulder soothingly. "Porthos? What's wrong?"

Porthos sagged a little, the fight going out of him. "It's just - Athos is hurting," he admitted quietly. "And there's nothing I can do about it."

Aramis shifted closer, slipped his arm right around him. "Do you want to go to him?" he offered. Porthos looked up, touched, but still despairing.

"Not my place, is it?" he said softly. 

Aramis sighed. "Oh Porthos." He pulled him into his arms and hugged him, and Porthos buried his face in Aramis' shoulder, unspeakably grateful that he understood.

\--

When D'Artagnan returned a while later they looked up questioningly, but he just shook his head.

"He still won't tell me," he said miserably, worried they'd think he'd failed. "He just says that it's nothing any of us have done, to leave him alone, and that he'll be okay tomorrow." 

D'Artagnan looked so wretched that Aramis got up and put an arm round him, before suddenly shooting a guilty look at Porthos. But Porthos just nodded understanding approval of his action, and Aramis hugged D'Artagnan comfortingly.

"He was alright yesterday, wasn't he?" D'Artagnan sighed. "What can have happened so suddenly? We've been with him, haven't we?"

"Then maybe he's telling the truth when he says he'll be all right again tomorrow," Aramis reassured him.

"Perhaps it's the date?" Porthos suggested with sudden inspiration. "An anniversary of something?" He gave a short laugh. "We've not forgotten his birthday have we?"

This at least raised a smile from D'Artagnan, who shook his head. "I imagine it would have to be something rather worse than that. His brother's death?" he ventured.

They all looked at each other, and sighed.

"All we can do is be here for him if he chooses to seek our company," Aramis said. "And not force it on him if he doesn't."

\--

It was long past midnight and the house was quiet when Athos' door creaked open. He shuffled clumsily down the corridor and steadied himself on the banister before attempting the staircase down to the hallway. 

Everything was a little blurry, and he winced as hot wax trickled over his knuckles from the candlestick he was clutching for light.

He licked dry lips, and started carefully down the steps. He'd been drinking wine for hours, bottle after bottle, and had woken from a restless doze with a clouded head and the desperate need to drink some water.

Athos couldn't remember the last time he'd been this bad. Discovering D'Artagnan with Aramis had made him feel sick, and angry, and stunned, but in the end they'd all still been manageable emotions. External emotions, directed at something someone else had done.

As opposed to something he'd done.

His foot slipped on a tread and he almost went over, grabbing the banister hastily and steadying the candle until it stopped threatening to go out. He needed to be more careful. If only because Porthos and Aramis would complain at having to clean blood off the tiles.

Athos almost smiled and then marvelled that even in the depths of his despair the thought of his friends could prompt such a thing. He was glad, now, that he'd listened to Porthos. When he'd fled the house, he'd never dreamed any of them would care enough to come after him, much less refuse to let him go, but it had turned out Porthos cared rather more than he'd ever imagined. And D'Artagnan hadn't forsaken him after all. And Aramis didn't hate him for what he'd done with Porthos. 

Athos reached the foot of the stairs without further incident and was turning towards the kitchens and the siren call of a pitcher of cold water, when he realised the front door to the house was standing open.

Puzzled, he made his way over and stepped outside, gravel crunching underfoot. Clad in a thin linen shirt, the night was chilly after the fug of his room and he shivered. Above, the stars were bright and hard and unforgiving, and he turned back inside with a feeling of sanctuary regained. 

A light flickered at the edge of his vision, as if someone had crossed a doorway with a candle. He closed the door behind him and walked in the direction of the light curiously.

"Porthos?" he called quietly, wondering if his almost-fall on the stairs had woken someone. "Is that you? Aramis?" That didn't explain the open door though.

Wishing his head wasn't quite so fuzzy, Athos walked through the night-time house as if under a compulsion. Sometimes he fancied he heard footsteps, and once a light flared close by in what turned out to be only a mirror, his own startled face looking out at him.

Turning back on himself, Athos felt he was walking in circles, dreamlike. Heedless, he drifted through room after room, until suddenly realising where he was headed.

They'd turned her room into a thing of sunlight and space, but Athos still rarely came in here. They might have banished the shadows and cobwebs, but the ones in his head remained.

He saw that this door too, was standing open, and in his drunken state was too slow-witted to be surprised. It felt inevitable somehow, but even so he took the glow within to simply be another reflection of his candle. Until it was too late.

The figure standing within was holding no candle but rather a fiercely burning brand, and as they turned to face him, Athos dropped his own in shock.

"You." 

He shook his head as if to clear it, attempting to dislodge the image. "You can't be here."

The woman facing him gave a smile that was all knives and malice.

"But I belong here. Don't I?" She glided forward and Athos stepped backwards, only to be brought up sharply by the doorframe.

"You're dead. I watched you hang," Athos said hoarsely.

She sneered. "You couldn't even get that right." 

"No. This isn't happening. I'm dreaming, I must be."

"Then this won't hurt, will it?" 

Too late Athos saw the brand coming at him, and his wine-weakened limbs refused to obey him when he tried to dodge. Perhaps though, it was the same relaxed state that saved him from serious injury as he crashed to the wall and then the floor.

She stood over him dangerously, and all he could do was lie there in helpless confusion.

"Why?"

"Why? Why not?" She stepped away, walking round the room critically. "You've redecorated. I don't like it." 

Touching the burning torch to the drapes and furniture as she went.

"You can't - " Athos tried to stand, and she walked swiftly back and kicked him over again.

"Oh, but I can. Five years today - I do so love an anniversary." Her hand went to her throat unconsciously, playing with the lace choker. "Time to say goodbye - Athos, is it now?" she asked. "Did you really hate yourself so much you had to change your name?" He nodded, weakly, and her smile hardened. "Good."

She crouched down next to him, and a knife glinted in the light of the flames growing around them. "I heard you were still here. Holed up like a lonely little alcoholic worm. So perhaps I'm doing you a favour by putting you out of my misery." 

"No," Athos croaked, trying to fend her off, but she pushed away his hands and gestured at him with the blade. "I could put out your eyes," she murmured wistfully. A jerk of her wrist and a red line of blood appeared across his cheek, making him cry out.

"Time to die dearest. All alone, and no-one to care." She placed the blade against his throat, and tensed.

"Hey!" The shout came from some distance away, coupled with the sound of running feet and she looked up startled, even as Athos grabbed her wrist and forced it away from his skin.

She looked down again and he glared back at her with more resolve than she'd ever expected from someone supposed to be so broken.

"Who the hell are they?" she hissed. Athos gave her a pained smile of something close to triumph.

"I'm _not_ , alone," he breathed.

She wrenched her hand from his grip and charged through the burning doorway, shouldering her way through the figures beyond in the smoke and confusion.

"What's going on? Who the hell was that?" Aramis' voice came out of the darkness beyond the flames.

"I'm going after them!"

"D'Artagnan, no! Oh for - " Aramis grabbed Porthos and shoved him towards Athos' slumped form. "Get him out of here. Then help me put this out before the whole house goes up!"

Athos groaned and coughed as strong arms lifted him off the floor and pulled him away from the scorching heat. His eyes were streaming and his chest felt like he was being crushed from the inside out, but Porthos half-dragged half-carried him out through the house and into the blessed fresh air.

They dropped to the grass together in a heap, and for a second Porthos held him tightly, before pulling back. 

"Are you hurt? Will you be alright if I help Aramis?"

Athos nodded shakily. "Go," he rasped, and Porthos nodded quickly, pausing only to press a rough kiss to Athos' forehead before racing back towards the house.

Athos sank back against the ground, wanting to help but knowing in his current weakened state he'd only be a liability and cursing himself for bringing this down on them. If any of them should be hurt, or worse, because of this - he groaned, feeling the wine churning sourly inside him, and leaned over to retch pitifully into the grass.

\--

As D'Artagnan pursued Athos' attacker with an instinctive fury, it was only as they left the house and dashed out into open ground that he realised he was chasing a woman. 

He'd only had time to take in a figure looming over Athos with a knife at his throat, and what with the swirling smoke, not to mention the bruising force they'd slammed into him with as they barged past, he'd been assuming it was a man.

D'Artagnan redoubled his pace, determined the would-be assassin would not escape him, and knowing he surely must be able to overtake someone whose flight was hampered by full skirts.

D'Artagnan however wasn't the only one to figure this out, and as he came dashing round the corner of the stableblock he skidded to a halt just in time to stop himself being impaled on a firmly wielded knife.

"Woah!" He dodged back, slipping on the damp cobbles and slamming his shoulder painfully into the wall. 

"Who are you?" The knife danced in front of his eyes, and D'Artagnan tried to keep it in focus and look at his attacker at the same time.

"Who am _I_?" he echoed incredulously. "Who the hell are _you_?"

"You don't know?" She looked at him speculatively in the moonlight.

"Obviously." D'Artagnan tensed himself to spring at her, but she noticed and stepped back out of range, pulling a pistol from her skirts instead and aiming it at him with a steady hand.

"You may call me Milady de Winter," she said with amused formality. "And for the second time, you are?"

"D'Artagnan."

"How charming. But that still doesn't tell me who you are," she said impatiently. She looked him up and down critically. D'Artagnan was wearing a nightshirt tucked hastily into breeches that were hanging half open, and boots that weren't a matching pair. "His manservant?" 

"No!" D'Artagnan glared at her. "His husband, as a matter of fact. Comte D’Artagnan de la Fère."

Milady almost lowered the gun in shock, before recovering herself and aiming it straight between his eyes. "Don't lie to me! What do you mean, his husband?"

"I'm not lying!" D'Artagnan looked frantically around him, hoping that one of the others had followed him out here, and guessing with a sinking heart they were too busy fighting the fire. He should have been helping, not getting himself shot out here.

"Athos and I - were married. Officially. By Cardinal Richelieu," he stammered, hardly knowing whether the fact of this would make her more or less likely to shoot him. The mention of the cardinal seemed to startle her, and she lowered the gun slightly. 

"Richelieu!" she muttered. "Just a political union, then?"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "We're lovers," he told her, determined that after everything, if he was going to die here he wasn't going to waste his last breath in denying Athos.

Milady cocked the pistol with a sudden resolve. "Turn around," she ordered.

Reluctantly D'Artagnan turned to face the wall, braced for the shot that would blow his brains out. 

A second crawled past, and another. Nothing happened. 

"Madame?" D'Artagnan ventured. "Are you still there?" There was no reply, and he edged gingerly round to find he was facing an empty yard.

\--

"Where the fuck have you been?" Porthos growled when D'Artagnan reappeared to join their frantic flame-damping. 

"Did you catch them?" Aramis asked. D’Artagnan shook his head ruefully. 

"She got away," he confessed, hastily lending a hand to beat out the smouldering vestiges of a disintegrating pair of curtains.

A few more minutes and the last of the fire was out, leaving soot-smeared walls and ceiling, and a floor awash with filthy water. They leaned against each other, just as dirty, and sighed in relief.

"Where's Athos?" D'Artagnan asked suddenly, realising he was on his own somewhere with a potential murderer still at large.

"Outside," Porthos told him. "He's okay."

"Did you forget the part where I lost track of the person trying to kill him?" D’Artagnan shot back, already running.

To their relief, Athos was still sitting where Porthos had left him, looking dazed and smeared with blood from a deep gash on his cheek, but otherwise unharmed. D’Artagnan dropped to his knees and put his arms around him, and Athos hugged him back tiredly.

"Thank you," he said, voice strained from coughing. "All of you. You saved my life. And my home." He looked toward the house in the greying light of pre-dawn and frowned. "Our home."

"Who was that?" Aramis asked, sinking to the grass and trying to clean his hands on his grubby shirt.

"She said her name was Milady de Winter," supplied D’Artagnan, and then flushed when they all looked at him in surprise. He was forced to relate the circumstances of his less than glorious attempt at capture, and near escape from death.

"Athos?" Porthos prompted when he'd finished. "Who is she?"

Athos just groaned. "Does it matter? She's gone. Hopefully she won't be back." 

The others looked at each other, hardly satisfied with this, but willing to cut him some slack for the moment, seeing the state he was in.

"Let's go inside," Aramis advised, looking warily at the treeline not far distant and mindful of the fact there could be any number of people aiming guns at them from cover.

\--

They helped Athos into the house, where Aramis cleaned and tended to the knife slash across his cheek.

"There we go," he sat back, satisfied. "It's not as deep as I feared. If you're lucky it won't even scar," he smiled.

"When have I ever been lucky?" Athos muttered.

Aramis patted him on the knee. "You're still alive aren't you?"

Athos conceded a rueful smile, and Aramis got to his feet, groaning and rubbing his back. "Well. I suppose that's all the sleep we're getting tonight," he sighed, crossing to the window and looking warily outside.

"She'll be long gone," Athos told him, guessing his thoughts. "Frontal assault’s not her style. More one for a knife in the back." He swung his feet up onto the couch and lay down, closing his eyes with a grunt.

"Yes, but who _is_ she?" Aramis persisted. Athos didn't answer, and when Aramis looked across at him was either asleep or pretending to be.

D'Artagnan sighed. "You know, I can't help feeling I've seen her somewhere before."

Aramis looked surprised. "Really? Where?"

He shook his head, frustrated. "I can't think." He looked up as Porthos came in with some fresh clothing. "Did you recognise her?"

"Only got a glimpse," Porthos said. "But it didn't ring any bells."

"Someone from the ball, perhaps?" Aramis suggested, gratefully accepting a clean shirt and stripping off his soot-stained linens unselfconsciously. 

"I have no idea." D'Artagnan wracked his brains to no avail, watching Porthos drape a blanket carefully over Athos, who was now definitely fast asleep. "Someone with a hell of a grudge against him."

"A spurned lover?" Aramis suggested. They all stared at the slumbering Athos for a moment and decided it was unlikely.

It was about half an hour later, and they'd been dozing in various chairs, unwilling to leave Athos alone, when D'Artagnan suddenly sat up and startled Aramis and Porthos awake.

"That's it!" He jumped to his feet and ran out of the room.

Aramis and Porthos looked at each other and sighed, before getting up and following him.

\--

He led the way up to Athos' rooms, and marched inside. Aramis and Porthos followed with some curiosity; they'd never been right inside before, mostly due to Athos' tendency to throw things when he was drunk. In any case, latterly he'd moved almost entirely into D'Artagnan's suite, and no-one had had cause to come in here since.

The rooms weren't in quite the state they'd feared, although could have done with an airing and a good dusting. There were numerous empty bottles and spills of candle wax and teetering piles of books, but other than a desiccated and long dead spray of flowers in a dried up vase nothing was particularly dirty or ill-kept.

D'Artagnan was standing before an oil painting with his hands on his hips. Something drastic seemed to have happened to the canvas at some point, and half of it was hanging down in a loose flap. D'Artagnan reached out and slapped it back into place, holding it up so they could all see the lady in the picture.

"That's her. I'm sure of it," D'Artagnan announced.

"Still doesn’t tell us who she is," Aramis pointed out. "There's no name or anything."

"Looks like there was a plaque, but someone's chipped it off," Porthos mused, running his finger along a rough and splintered piece at the bottom of the frame. "What happened to it? That rip almost looks like it was done with a sword."

"Target practice?" Aramis joked.

"Why would you deface a painting like that, but then keep it?" Porthos argued. Aramis shrugged.

"This isn’t getting us anywhere. D'Artagnan, can you tell us anything more?"

D'Artagnan shook his head helplessly. "All I know is the picture's been like that as long as we've been here. I've only been in here a couple of times myself, and Athos would never talk about it."

"He needs to start," Aramis said firmly. "It's one thing having secrets, but when those secrets start trying to set fire to me, I get irritable."

They made their way back downstairs and found Athos sitting up and yawning. He looked up warily as the three men came and stood arrayed before him.

"Who is she, Athos?" D’Artagnan asked quietly. Athos flinched, and looked away.

"No-one."

"Her picture hangs in your rooms, that's hardly no-one," Porthos said.

Athos shot him a look. "I thought I told you never to go in there?" he muttered.

"She would have burnt down this house and everyone in it," Aramis told him angrily. "I rather think that changes the rules."

"Athos?" D'Artagnan prompted softly. 

Athos gave in. "My wife," he sighed defeatedly. "She's my wife."

They stared at him in shock. "But - you said she was dead," Aramis protested, being the first to find his voice. 

"I thought she was." Athos looked up at them miserably. "I was wrong."

Abruptly, and with a stifled noise of involuntary shock D'Artagnan turned and ran out of the room. Athos looked from Aramis to Porthos, confused and more than a little hurt.

"Is he angry?" Athos asked hesitantly.

Porthos gave him a blank look. "Who knows what the hell goes on in that boy's head?" He nodded to Aramis to go after him, and sat down next to Athos, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly.

"I didn't know, I swear," Athos said in a low voice, worried they would think he'd lied to them. "I thought she was dead."

"We believe you," Porthos said reassuringly. He looked at Athos' pale and drawn face and put his arm round him. "Are you alright?"

Athos shook his head slowly. "Honestly? I don't know. I've spent so long, thinking she was dead. Thinking that I'd killed her. And now - I don't know what to think."

"Well, it's got to be a good thing, right?" Porthos suggested, and Athos looked at him in surprise. "I just mean - it's obviously been weighing on you," Porthos clarified. "All this time you thought you'd been responsible for her death. And now - well, you weren't. Whatever else happens, isn't that better?"

Athos managed a thin smile. "Perhaps you're right." He rested his head against Porthos' shoulder tiredly. "Thank you," he murmured.

Porthos rubbed his fingers softly against the back of Athos' neck, fighting down the urge to take him in his arms and kiss him. It wasn't the time. 

He sighed. It would never be the time.

\--

Aramis found D'Artagnan two rooms away, slumped in a chair with his head in his hands.

"D'Artagnan? What's wrong?" he asked gently. "Why did you run out like that? Athos thinks you're angry with him."

D'Artagnan looked up then, eyes wide and pained. "Oh - no - I didn't mean him to - oh God." He buried his face again and Aramis came closer, reaching out to stroke his hair. 

"Tell me what's wrong," Aramis coaxed. "If you can't tell Athos, then at least tell me."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and mastered himself. "If his wife isn't dead," he said slowly. "That means they're still married. And we aren't." 

He looked up at Aramis helplessly. "Athos is a man who - well, let's just say honour means a lot to him. Do you really think he'll want to continue what can now be no more than a - a sinful and lawless association?"

Aramis stared back at him with a certain amount of exasperation. "Well asking him would probably be a good start, don't you think?"

D'Artagnan gave him unhappy eyes, and Aramis softened his tone. "You're right, he is a man of honour - and for exactly that reason I can hardly see him throwing you over."

"He might be glad of the excuse to get rid of me," D'Artagnan muttered. 

"Come on. Let's go back." Aramis held out his hand. "There's no sense in guessing games."

D'Artagnan allowed himself to be pulled from the chair and shepherded in the direction of the others, grateful for the comforting pressure of Aramis' hand at the small of his back.

When they returned, Porthos rose to his feet and silently let D'Artagnan take his place on the couch next to Athos. 

Athos looked searchingly at D'Artagnan, who took Athos' hands in his, but then his nerve failed him and he bowed his head without speaking.

Aramis rolled his eyes. "He's afraid you will forsake him, now it is apparent you are not in fact legally married," Aramis declared. Everyone looked at him in varying degrees of surprise and in D'Artagnan's case, embarrassed annoyance. He shrugged, still looking coolly at Athos. "If you do, bear in mind I shall take it upon myself to personally beat some sense into you."

D’Artagnan and Porthos were startled, but Athos gave him a reluctant smile. "You could certainly try," he murmured, before squeezing D'Artagnan's hands and causing him to look up.

"Did you really think for a second that after everything I would let you go?" he asked quietly. "Do you want this, D'Artagnan? Do you still want _me_?"

"Yes." D'Artagnan nodded desperately. "With all my heart."

"Then so be it. Regardless of the technicalities, as far as I am concerned we are married in every sense that counts, and I will not let anyone tell me otherwise." Athos glanced up at Aramis and Porthos, standing witness, and looked back at D'Artagnan.

"As far as the world is concerned, my wife died five years ago. From what you've said, she goes by another name now, and it would serve her no purpose to make herself known - if nothing else she is still under sentence of death. And the only other people who know our marriage is anything less than legal are in this room."

"And you may be sure we will keep our silence," Aramis offered quietly.

"Thank you." Athos nodded, and cupped D'Artagnan's cheek with his hand. 

"I love you D'Artagnan" he said softly. "And I am not ashamed to say it."

He drew D'Artagnan closer and kissed him with such heat that those watching were soon shifting awkwardly where they stood. Aramis felt warm fingers ghost across the back of his hand as Porthos moved unobtrusively closer, and without looking at each other they let their hands clasp tightly. 

Athos and D'Artagnan rose to their feet as one, and muttered something unconvincing about getting a few hours sleep before the sun was right up.

When they'd left the room, Porthos took in Aramis' flushed face and smirked. "You alright?"

Aramis nodded. "Just - from things that D'Artagnan had said to me - I'd never pictured Athos being quite so - " he cleared his throat, surreptitiously adjusting himself in his breeches. "Passionate."

Porthos gave a throaty laugh. "Liking someone else to be in charge doesn't mean you have to be passive." He still had hold of Aramis' hand, and pulled him closer. "In fact, I'd say Athos might even have been louder than you," he teased.

Aramis bit his lower lip thoughtfully and gave Porthos a crooked smile. "Now, there's a challenge."

\--

Athos entered the kitchen the next morning to find Aramis seated at the table cleaning his pistols. 

"I trust you have no objection to us going armed," Aramis murmured in response to his pointed look. 

Athos sighed. "It would seem prudent," he admitted. "Although I would be surprised to see her return, with so many of us here."

"Better safe than sorry." 

After a moment Athos left the room again looking thoughtful, and Aramis carefully loaded his guns with a satisfied expression.

"Don't tell me you're enjoying this," Porthos accused.

Aramis smiled non-committally. "A little excitement never hurt anyone."

"You were the one who wanted to leave Paris," Porthos reminded him. 

"I know. But we've been here - what, six months now? More? Nothing ever happens. I confess, I'm bored."

"You're not thinking of leaving?" Porthos asked, frowning.

Aramis shook his head. "But I could use a little action in my life if I'm honest."

Porthos gave him a suggestive grin, and Aramis laughed, slipping his arms around him.

"I'd have gone crazy if I didn't have you," he murmured.

They'd been kissing for a while when Athos unexpectedly walked back in and they pulled apart in embarrassment.

Aramis cleared his throat. "Sorry."

"Don't mind me." Athos laid his own brace of pistols out on the table and turned his attention to cleaning them with the materials Aramis had laid out.

"Alright then." Deciding to take Athos at his word, Aramis pulled Porthos back and kissed him again. Up to now, neither couple had been particularly demonstrative in front of the other, but after having to watch Athos and D'Artagnan kissing last night Aramis wanted a little revenge. Not to mention feeling it wouldn't hurt to mark his territory a little.

It was this sight then that met D'Artagnan's eyes when he walked in moments later: Porthos and Aramis wrapped in a passionate clinch while Athos sat before them calmly cleaning the barrel of his pistol. He dissolved into helpless laughter.

\--

Despite believing Milady long gone, Athos was wary enough to adopt Aramis' example and so when he was walking through the grounds two days later and she stepped out from behind a tree, he had his pistol raised and aimed at her head before he'd fully processed the fact of her presence.

"You'd kill an unarmed and defenceless woman?" she chided him. "Really? But then, I suppose there is precedent."

"I suspect you are neither," Athos said dryly. He lowered the gun a little. "What do you want?"

"What, no words of welcome?" She stepped closer and he raised the gun again.

"No further, if you please. I'd hate to be ungentlemanly."

"This is your idea of being gentlemanly, is it?" she asked, nodding at the pistol.

"You're still alive, aren't you?" 

Athos stared at her, his inner turmoil hidden beneath a mask of indifference. His recollection of the night she had returned was hazy at best, but now he could study her at leisure. She was - had always been - beautiful, but now he found to his eyes it was a cold, hard glamour. She was like a snake, repellent but fascinating. And deadly.

Milady allowed his searching gaze to roam over her body, standing before his scrutiny proud and unabashed. 

"Why have you come back?" Athos asked finally. "You must know you are in danger if you remain here. Go. Live your life. Leave me to mine," he sighed, sounding tired.

"I'm touched. Such concern. If a few years too late." She smiled at him. "And unnecessary. I have powerful protection these days. Why am I here? I've come to warn you."

"Warn me?" Athos was startled, and then suspicious. "Warn me of what?"

"I confess to being intrigued, by your new - arrangements." She gave a moue of distaste. "So I made certain enquiries. It would appear that your young D'Artagnan is not all he seems."

"What are you talking about?" Athos knew he shouldn't listen, knew that anything that came out of her mouth was sure to be lies. But he was curious as to what had brought her back here and the temptation to hear what she had to say was too strong.

"Your union was promoted by the Cardinal, yes? Did you never think that odd?"

Athos frowned. "The whole thing was odd," he said. "Although I had thought it more the King's idea than Richelieu's."

Milady gave an elegant shrug. "Perhaps that is what you were meant to think. In any case, your precious D'Artagnan is the Cardinal's man. A viper in the nest, as it were."

"That makes no sense," Athos protested, scoffing. "He was as surprised by all this as I was. And besides, to what purpose?"

"You have an extensive estate, however neglected it may be," she told him carelessly, ignoring the gun he was still covering her with. "That's a large income. Not to mention your considerable family inheritance. All funds that could well be better deployed by the Cardinal."

"You're talking nonsense." Athos adjusted his grip on the gun, his arm starting to tire. Determined he wouldn't believe a word of the poisonous venom she was feeding him.

"Well, I'm sure you have your affairs entirely under control," she smiled sweetly. "And know where every penny of your money is going. If the boy has never once given you cause to doubt him then perhaps I was - misinformed." She didn't miss the shadow that passed across Athos' face, just for a second. 

"Oh, but I see that perhaps he has. Can it be that you don't trust him as fully as you would have me think? And those men of yours. How sure are you of them? Do you know their histories? You've chosen to surround yourself with dangerous men, Athos. A spy, a mercenary and a pirate." She delivered the words with a certain vicious amusement.

"You're lying. Why would you tell me this anyway?"

"Why?" Her face contorted briefly. "Because the idea of your happiness is abhorrent to me. I would have you suffer the full knowledge of his betrayal. He's using you, _Athos_. He's seduced you. As to the truth of it, why should I need to lie, when the truth will hurt you so much more?" 

Athos took an involuntary step backwards before the force of her malice, shaking his head in denial. "No. No, I won't believe it."

"Your choice. But if I were you, I'd look to my back," she declared, turning away in a dismissive sweep of skirts. "You might just find there's a knife in it."

He watched her walk away, not lowering the gun until she had disappeared between the trees and he could no longer hear her footsteps. 

Athos walked back towards the house with a heavy heart and conflicted thoughts. He didn't want to believe her. Largely, he _didn't_ believe her. He knew her for a liar, and that she bore him ill will, and the whole idea was a preposterous one.

But. But. There was just the faintest shadow of insidious doubt in his mind, and it was enough to keep her words echoing over and over in his head.

Inside the house, his steps took him past the door to the study. Inside, Aramis was sitting at the accounts ledgers, D'Artagnan leaning over his shoulder, deep in conversation. 

Athos was slightly taken aback to realise that in his disinterest he'd given over control of the estate and accounts to them almost in their entirety. Milady had guessed right there at least, he had little idea of current income or outgoings. He didn't care all that much either, it had to be said - if he lost all his worldly goods it wouldn't have mattered to him. No, in such a case it would be the betrayal that hurt the most, and she knew as much.

They looked up as he stopped in the doorway and smiled at him.

"Did you want us?" Aramis asked.

"No. No, just passing." Athos nodded to them and moved on.

He found Porthos in the kitchen kneading bread dough, and settled into his accustomed chair by the fire, watching him silently for a while, as he beat the dough into submission.

When it was safely divided and laid out in the oven, Porthos wiped the flour from his arms and dropped into the chair opposite. 

"Alright, give," he said. "What's wrong?"

"Who says anything’s wrong?" Athos asked.

"I know that look," Porthos told him darkly. 

"I was just thinking." 

"Brooding, I call it. Go on, spill."

Athos sighed, shaking his head. "How well do you know Aramis?" he asked slowly, after a while.

"Biblically?" Porthos asked with a smile.

"Historically."

Porthos shrugged. "I'd never met him before the day you hired us both. Guess I know him pretty well by now though."

"And you trust him?"

"With my life." Porthos frowned. "Where's this going?"

Athos just shook his head. "Has he told you much about his past? What he did before this?"

"Not - in detail," Porthos said consideringly. "I get the impression there are things he doesn't especially want to re-live. I know he was in the army." He smiled suddenly. "And that once he was going to be a priest."

"A priest?" The idea of it for a second made Athos forget his worries and smile back.

"Turned out it wasn't for him," Porthos grinned. "Happily for me, anyway."

"Yes. Quite." Athos sighed. "And what of you?" he asked quietly. "You never talk about what you did before this."

"There's not a lot of it I care to remember," Porthos told him grimly. "Most of it was hard, and bleak and too much of it was hand to mouth." He looked unhappily at Athos, wondering what had brought all this on.

"And D'Artagnan?" Athos persisted. "Had you ever encountered him before?"

Porthos laughed. "Hardly the kind of circles I was moving in." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Look, Athos, what's wrong?" 

"I just - sometimes I don’t quite know who to trust," Athos said softly. "And I don’t have a great track record."

Porthos frowned. "You don't think they're - I'd know," he said firmly. "And they're not."

"Oh. No. It wasn't that," Athos admitted. "No." He shook himself. "Sorry. I'm being stupid. Paranoid. Ignore me." He stood up, and Porthos stood with him, touching his arm.

"You can trust me Athos," he said sincerely. "Know that."

Athos nodded gratefully, but as he walked away, the worm of doubt in the back of his head was wondering if it came down to it, would Porthos really choose him over Aramis? 

He shook himself, resolved to put the whole mess out of his head. Milady was lying, or twisting the truth at least. He had no reason to suppose Porthos and Aramis were anything but loyal, regardless of their past, and D'Artagnan loved him. Didn't he?

He would pay her lies no mind. No mind at all.

\--

Walking through the empty church Cardinal Richelieu paused, getting the sudden feeling he was not alone. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably and he slid a hand discreetly into his robes, reaching for the knife concealed within the folds. 

Richelieu could hear nothing, no footsteps, no breathing, but he was certain he was being watched. Listening intently he tilted his head to the side and caught the faint scent of jasmine. He relaxed, although didn't remove his hand from the hilt of the knife.

"Where the hell have you been?" he snapped, without looking round.

Milady stepped out from behind a pillar and smiled at him. "Business."

"You have no business that is not mine," Richelieu growled. "How am I expected to trust you when you disappear for days at a time without word?"

"My apologies," she said smoothly. "But if I'm right, my trip may yet be of service to you." Milady considered. "First I have a question. The Comtes de la Fère and D'Artagnan...?"

Richelieu snorted derisively. "His Majesty's whim. I had hoped they would refuse the union and their lands become forfeit, but it was not to be. Why, what's your interest in them?" he demanded suspiciously.

"There were stipulations, then? To the marriage contract?" Milady asked, ignoring the question.

"They had to remain together," Richelieu said. "Or again, give up their fortunes to the crown. I had still hoped to prevail there, except my spies tell me against all expectation they've become actually _fond_ of each other." He sounded disgusted, although more at the concept of fondness than anything else.

"So if something were to come between them - you could still claim their lands and titles?"

Richelieu looked at her with something like pitying amusement. "If you were thinking of seducing one of them, by all accounts you might find that rather more difficult than you expect."

"Nothing so basic." She shook her head. "But there's more than one way to skin a comte. I shall merely need you to write me a letter."

Richelieu narrowed his eyes. "If you think to implicate me in your scheming - "

"Not at all. It will be the most innocuous content. But its impact..." she smiled. "I think you will find it quite effective."

\--

At first the arrival of an unexpected letter caused mild amusement in the house.

"If it's another ball, I refuse to go," Aramis announced, leaning back in his chair. "Let Athos and Porthos go this time. They will take less offence at a miserable reception and no doubt cause infinitely more before leaving," he grinned, ducking as Porthos took a good-natured swipe at him.

Even Athos smiled slightly, although didn't interject. He'd been clearly preoccupied for several days, although had so far refused to be drawn on his thoughts and finally seemed to be coming out of it a little.

"Porthos, why don't you do the honours?" Aramis smiled, pushing the envelope across the table to him. "Given we know Athos' aversion to invitations." It bore the name of the house but not the recipient, although everyone assumed it was intended for Athos. No-one had seen it arrive either, it had suddenly appeared that morning on the table in the hall.

Porthos picked it up with a snort and broke the seal, scanning the contents carefully. As he read the brief message within, his brow furrowed and he slowly lowered the letter again, handing it not to Athos but to D'Artagnan.

"It's for you," Porthos said slowly. "I think you should be the one to read it."

Aramis sighed. "Oh come, you should be quite capable by now of - " he broke off at the odd look Porthos shot him. "What?"

"It's not that I can't read it," Porthos muttered. "I'm just not sure I should have." He cast an uneasy glance at Athos, who was staring at him with a wary tension, aware that something was wrong but not sure what.

D’Artagnan was now reading the letter, and looked up at them in confusion. "I don't understand," he said. "What does it mean?"

Aramis sighed and twitched the paper from his fingers, reading aloud.

"...are hereby required to present yourself to me three days hence and most importantly to say nothing to anyone of this summons - oh." Aramis broke off in consternation, realising Porthos' issue with it. "Er." He looked at D'Artagnan who was staring back at him in the hope that Aramis might be able to shed some light on it.

Aramis looked back down at the letter wondering if he'd read the signature wrongly and shook his head in astonishment. "This is signed by Cardinal Richelieu."

The sound of a chair scraping back made them all jump and they looked up to find Athos on his feet, looking pale enough to faint.

"It's true then," he said hoarsely. "It's all true?" He looked almost like he was in pain, his face crumpled with distress.

"What is?" D'Artagnan looked up at him in blank surprise.

"Athos?" Aramis got to his feet, reaching out a hand, but Athos backed away shaking his head convulsively.

"I didn't want to believe it," he managed. "I truly didn't. I _trusted_ you."

"Believe what?" Porthos demanded. "Athos, what's going on?"

Athos pointed at D'Artagnan with a shaking finger. "He's working for the Cardinal."

" _What_?" D’Artagnan stared at him, apparently too surprised to react.

"What are you talking about?" Aramis asked, exchanging a look of bemusement with Porthos.

"Why don't you ask him," Athos said bleakly. "If you don’t already know, that is."

"What?" Aramis went from looking confused to indignant. "Athos, I think I speak for everyone around this table when I say what the fuck are you talking about?"

"He's a spy. For the Cardinal," Athos said, sounding choked.

"What in heaven's name makes you think that?"

Athos hesitated. " _She_ said so. Milady."

"When?" Aramis demanded, half wondering if Athos had hallucinated the whole thing whilst drunk.

"A few days ago. She came back. To warn me."

"She was _here_?" Aramis grasped Athos by his shirt and shook him. "And you didn’t think to say? Athos, for someone who puts so much store in trust, it's about time you realised that it goes both ways, don’t you think?" He let Athos go in frustration when Athos refused to either fight him off or defend himself. 

Athos looked shamefaced but defiant. "I didn't want to believe her," he protested. "I didn’t expect to be presented with _proof_!"

"Proof?" D’Artagnan waved the letter at him angrily. "You call this proof? Of what? Athos, whatever you think of me, I - I'm not a spy. I'd never betray you."

"Wouldn’t you?" Athos looked at him and D’Artagnan winced.

"Okay, look, I fucked up. I thought we'd got past that," D’Artagnan pleaded. "I thought you'd _forgiven_ me!" 

Athos didn’t answer, just stared at him brokenly. Porthos stepped between them.

"Look, without wanting to insult anyone, but since you brought it up, D'Artagnan couldn’t even conduct an affair without figuring out he should probably use a room with a lock, and you expect us to believe he's been working against you in secret all this time?" he said. "I'm sorry Athos, I don't buy it."

D’Artagnan opened his mouth indignantly then closed it again, realising that technically Porthos was defending him.

Athos looked miserable. "Unless I was supposed to see it," he said quietly. "What if that was the idea? To make me walk out. If I ended things, all this would revert to the Cardinal."

"Are you drunk?" Aramis accused, looking from D'Artagnan's hurt and bewildered expression to Athos' resigned and empty one. "I don't know why you would choose to take the word of a woman who wants you dead over D'Artagnan's but you have to be mistaken."

Athos shook his head. "It appears the only mistake I've made," he said, still looking at D’Artagnan and sounding like he was seconds from tears, "is imagining someone like you could ever actually love me." 

Before anyone could speak he turned and fled the room. There was a second of stunned silence, then D’Artagnan collapsed in his seat and put his head in his hands.

"What do I do?" he asked, voice tight with disbelieving shock. "I don't understand what's going on." D'Artagnan looked up at them, suddenly afraid. "You believe me, don’t you?" he pleaded. "I haven't _done_ anything."

Aramis put a hand on his shoulder and sighed.

"Well given that I can vouch for the fact I at least wasn't involved in any conspiracy - " he dropped into the next chair and rubbed his eyes. "I'm inclined to believe you. Porthos?"

Porthos looked at them both watching him worriedly, and nodded slowly. He patted D'Artagnan's hand. "I believe you," he sighed. "And to be honest I think Athos does too, deep down. Or at least he wants to." He wished he'd pressed Athos harder to talk to him about what was on his mind, and hoped it wasn’t too late. 

D'Artagnan slumped in relief. He picked up the letter with distaste and stared at it. "I don't know what's going on, but either this is the world's biggest and most hideous coincidence, or I'm being set up."

"So what do we do?" Aramis wondered.

D'Artagnan slammed the letter down on the table and looked at him with a hard resolve. "We go to Paris like it says. And find out exactly what the fuck is going on."

\--

The commotion outside was enough to make Athos venture reluctantly out of his rooms. From his vantage point on the stairs he discovered D'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis gathered in the hall below around a haphazard pile of luggage. He froze, hand curled painfully tight around the rail.

In the few hours since the arrival of the letter and his retreat from the scene in the kitchen, Athos had more than half expected D'Artagnan - someone - _anyone_ \- to come after him, protesting their innocence. But his door had remained strictly undisturbed and despite initially clinging to a glimmer of hope, he'd sunk deeper and deeper into the conviction that Milady had been telling the truth after all. 

After everything he'd done, how could he ever have imagined he deserved happiness? 

But knowing he'd been a fool didn't stop it hurting so much more than he'd ever thought possible.

"You're leaving?" he asked now.

D'Artagnan looked up at him and a certain resentment hardened in his face. "Well, a summons from the Cardinal, can hardly ignore that, can I?" he drawled. "We ride for Paris."

Athos descended the stairs slowly, pausing a few treads up from the hall.

"Then I trust you won’t bother coming back," he said bitterly.

At this, Porthos stepped forward. "There's something else," he said, and Athos looked at him with a look of pained betrayal.

"You too?" Athos asked quietly. 

Porthos shook his head angrily. "For God's sake Athos. I meant it when I said you could trust me. But that doesn’t mean I'm going to just stand by and watch you make a pig's ear of everything. D'Artagnan's right, we are going to Paris. But you're coming with us."

"What?" Athos stared at him in surprise, but it was D’Artagnan who answered.

"There's only one way to resolve this, and it's to find out what's going on," he said, drawing Athos' gaze back to himself. "But no matter what we find out, if you're not there to witness it you'll never truly believe us, whatever we say. So you need to come. Even if we have to knock you down and drag you to Paris, you have to come." D'Artagnan paused, struggling for his next words. 

"Whatever you think me guilty of Athos, I'm innocent. And - and if I'm really to confront the most dangerous man in France, I'd - I'd quite like you to be at my side." D'Artagnan faltered, overcome with emotion and pressing his lips together to prevent them from trembling.

Athos had descended the last few steps while he was speaking and was walking towards him slowly, searching his face for the truth in his words. D’Artagnan’s expression was pleading and open, tears of frustration beading in his lashes. 

Athos came to a halt before him, to his initial disbelief and gradual, wondering acceptance finding only sincerity in D’Artagnan’s eyes. Something inside him finally gave way - or perhaps only quietly mended.

"Very well," he said softly.

D'Artagnan looked up at him in sudden hope and seized his hands. "You'll come?"

Athos nodded slowly. "And - for what it's worth? To hell with proof. I believe you," he breathed.

 _"Athos."_ D'Artagnan threw himself into Athos' arms and they held each other tightly. 

"I love you," Athos admitted, face buried in D'Artagnan's hair. "And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." 

D'Artagnan shook his head, sniffing and laughing at the same time. "It's alright. If you mean it? Then - it's alright."

Watching, Aramis sighed with relief as the tension finally eased. He caught Porthos' eye and smiled ruefully.

"When did I become as invested in them as in us?" he murmured and Porthos laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. 

"She screws with one of us, she screws with all of us," he declared, and moved across to pat Athos approvingly on the back. Aramis joined him and between them they encircled Athos and D'Artagnan in a spontaneous embrace.

Athos looked up at Porthos' touch. "I'm sorry," he murmured. Porthos shook his head, smiling. 

"If you've come to your senses, that's good enough for me." 

"So - " Aramis frowned. "Do we still go? Or - leave well enough alone?"

Athos stepped back and set his shoulders. Somehow having made his decision he looked subtly different, stronger and more resolved.

"We still go," he declared. "But you're right, we go together." He gave a grim smile, hand dropping to his side where his sword would normally hang. "And we do this properly." 

\--

The weather was on the turn when they finally entered Paris, heavy clouds threatening rain and a rising wind that snatched at their cloaks. 

Athos, determined that they would not slink into the city or give the impression they were in any way to be cowed, had taken a large house near the Louvre, letting it be known to all and sundry in no uncertain terms that they had arrived. 

D'Artagnan found himself surprised and impressed by Athos' command of their situation; having become accustomed to his generally unassuming nature it came as a shock to remember he could be every inch the imposing aristocrat when the situation called for it. 

Aramis too watched with a wary interest as Athos ordered various tradespeople here there and everywhere at his bidding, although as he at no point directed anything that might be construed as an order towards either himself or Porthos, Aramis gradually relaxed, ignoring Porthos' knowing 'I told you so' expression. On the contrary, Athos continued to defer to both of them for their opinion as much as he did to D'Artagnan, and had insisted they take one of the main bedrooms for themselves.

"We are acting in this matter as one, I see no reason why we should be quartered differently," was all Athos had said when Porthos had suggested with slight embarrassment that perhaps he and Aramis should take the servants' accommodation.

So it was, that in a very few number of days following receipt of the Cardinal's letter they found themselves walking boldly into the palace. They'd discussed their approach, all four of them arguing it out late into the night, whether D'Artagnan should do as the letter asked and present himself alone, or whether a united front would be of more benefit.

Athos had argued against the former, at pains to explain this was not for want of trust, but because he feared for D'Artagnan's safety in such a case. D'Artagnan had naturally scorned this and been entirely willing to take on an entire regiment of the Cardinal's Red Guards single handedly, demonstrating what he'd do to them by means of waving one of the fire irons alarmingly round his head until Porthos took it away from him.

They had finally agreed that Athos and D'Artagnan would present themselves at court together, as politeness and protocol dictated given their arrival in the city. They would say nothing of the letter unless it was mentioned, and base their subsequent actions on the response they received.

Their appearance in the throne room caused an interested stir in the gathered nobility, who parted before them to allow an approach to be made to the King. Athos and D'Artagnan walked unhurriedly side by side, with Aramis and Porthos in attendance a discreet pace behind them.

All four of them were dressed for the occasion, in finery suitable for a royal audience. Aramis and Porthos, unaccustomed to wearing quite such grand clothing were glad all eyes were on Athos and D'Artagnan.

"Explains a lot about the nobility if you ask me," Porthos muttered to Aramis, under cover of the general rise in conversation prompted by their arrival. "If I wore a silk shirt like this every day I'd start expecting swan for breakfast and someone to press my bath towels."

"Then I'd better get you out of it as soon as possible," Aramis whispered back, smirking, "before you start getting ideas." 

Coming to a halt before the throne, Athos took a shrewd look at the faces of both King and Cardinal, before lowering himself in a deep and courtly bow, sensing D'Artagnan copy the movement at his side. Louis' expression had been one of delighted surprise, a child given an unexpected treat. Richelieu had looked sour, but then he nearly always looked like that so it was hard to judge the reason.

"Your Majesty." Athos straightened up, and to Louis' obvious delight, took D'Artagnan's hand in his, elevating them ceremonially as if to begin a dance and letting the entire room see what he had done. "It was your wish, I recall, that we should present ourselves occasionally before you. My apologies for not returning before now, I beg forgiveness."

Louis actually clapped his hands together in delight and Richelieu gave an eyeroll that wasn't lost on Athos.

"My dear Comte! And, ah, Comte," declared the King, leaning forward and transferring his gaze to D’Artagnan. "You have returned to us at last! And how goes your union?" he enquired expectantly.

"I am happy to say that it thrives," D’Artagnan replied with another slight bow. "Your Majesty made a most perspicacious decision."

"I did?" 

Louis looked briefly unsure and Richelieu hissed "Wise, your Majesty."

"Oh! Yes. I did rather, didn't I?" Louis sat back, looking pleased with himself. "See Armand? Did I not tell you this was one of my better ideas?"

Someone in the crowd snorted, and Louis turned his head sharply. "Ninon? Are you unwell?"

The lady in question curtseyed deeply. "My apologies, your Majesty. A little powder in my throat." As she rose, she caught Athos' eye and he was struck by the searching nature of her gaze, as if she was trying to work out if he and D'Artagnan were serious or shamming. He offered her a smile, and was amused when she promptly glared haughtily back at him before turning away. He would never fathom women, he decided. Whatever madness had induced Louis to demand this marriage of them, Athos would be forever grateful for it.

"And will you both remain in Paris now for the season?" Louis was asking, hoping he could show them off as an amusement at his next banquet. 

"Why, we have come here surely at your invitation," D'Artagnan announced, completely contrary to everything they'd previously agreed. "I received a letter from the Cardinal, requesting our attendance. I hope I did not misinterpret?"

Athos gave him a sideways look and D'Artagnan shrugged unrepentantly. "What? I was getting bored," he muttered under his breath. Athos sighed, but said nothing.

Louis had turned in surprise to Richelieu, who'd gone an interesting colour of crimson. "Is this true?" 

"Why yes, your Majesty," Richelieu said smoothly, with no trace of the fury that had briefly coloured his features. "You put so much thought into their match, it seemed a shame they had vanished from your court so completely. I hoped it would make a nice surprise for you." 

He gave Louis a rather sickly smile. Arranging 'nice surprises' for the King would do his wider reputation no favours whatsoever. He was going to kill someone for this, and right now he didn't much care who.

"You are so _thoughtful_." Louis patted the Cardinal on the arm delightedly and Richelieu gritted his teeth.

After a few more minutes' conversation, to their relief Athos and D'Artagnan were allowed to slip away. Their unexpected arrival and novelty value had allowed them to directly approach the throne, but the room was still crammed with people seeking an audience, and they were more than happy to relinquish their place as soon as could be considered polite.

Outside the throne room, at a safe distance they all stopped and looked at each other. 

"Is it me, or was that a bit of an anti-climax?" asked Aramis, feeling wrongfooted.

Athos shook his head slowly. "I have a feeling if we wait a while, someone will show their hand. I hardly expected anything to happen in there. It was more - the opening of hostilities." He smiled slightly, the fingers fidgeting on the pommel of his sword the only indication of unrest. "I didn't imagine Milady's warning, after all."

"I was starting to wonder," Aramis told him, only half joking. He drew indignant looks from both Porthos and D'Artagnan, but Athos gave him a wry smile and he found himself smiling back. Athos might claim to dislike the bustle of Paris and the trappings of the court, but the fact remained there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there for some time, as if the promise of trouble had woken him from some deep corner of himself, and Aramis approved. 

\--

Richelieu had barely entered his offices when the rustle of skirts alerted him to the presence of Milady standing behind the door. He turned and glared at her.

“So much for your precious scheming,” Richelieu sneered. “They appear to be closer than ever. I almost looked a fool out there, and it is well for you that his Majesty was satisfied with my explanation.”

Milady pressed her lips together in a thin line, containing her fury both at being thwarted by Athos and at the Cardinal’s tone. “It should have worked. I can’t fathom how he trusts anyone to that degree after what I did to him.” She set her shoulders. “Give me some men and I will finish this, once and for all.”

“Are you insane?” Richelieu hissed. “You would implicate me in murder now?”

“Credit me with some intelligence,” Milady snapped back, although by this point she’d have been entirely willing to have Athos cut down in the street by a whole troop. “The boy D’Artagnan is known for being a hot-head, and la Fère is a swordsman of infamous ability. It should come as no surprise to anyone if they were both to find themselves embroiled in duels, and their subsequent deaths as a matter of import for court gossip only.”

“And where do you propose to find a man capable of besting both these men?” Richelieu demanded archly. 

Milady shook her head impatiently. “I have no intention of actually fighting them, your Eminence. Give me the men ask for, and I’ll have them simply taken and slain. The word will be spread they both died in fights they themselves started. Their lands and titles will revert to you – my apologies, to the _crown_ – and the matter will be at an end.”

Richelieu stared at her for a long hard minute and then nodded sharply. “See that it is.”

\--

In the anteroom, the four were preparing to depart when a messenger came hurrying towards them.

“My lords.” He bowed deeply. “A message from his Eminence the Cardinal, he requests a private audience with the Comte d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan looked startled and glanced at Athos with a guilt he had no reason to be feeling. Athos though, merely shook his head slightly, as if to tell him not to worry. Having made his decision and committed himself to a course of action, Athos would not now be diverted or easily fooled.

“Take Aramis or Porthos with you,” Athos instructed quietly, knowing the instruction to come alone merely meant without him. 

D’Artagnan nodded. “Porthos?” he invited, seeing no reason to play into their adversaries’ hands by taking Aramis. Porthos immediately stepped to his side, grim-faced and determined.

“We’ll wait for you here,” Athos told them, and he and Aramis watched them walk away down the corridor towards the Cardinal’s offices.

“What do you think?” Aramis asked quietly. Athos shook his head.

“I’m not sure. Part of me worries this is merely a ruse to split us up,” he murmured. “Two men offer less of a threat than four, after all.”

“You think we’ll be attacked? Here in the palace?” Aramis asked in shock.

"I would put nothing past her at this stage," Athos confessed. "Especially if she's feeling cornered. It is now she will be at her most dangerous."

"And you married this woman?" Aramis couldn't help saying. As soon as the words were out he wished he could take them back, but Athos only looked at him dryly. 

"Perhaps I have a regrettable taste for danger," he observed, and Aramis laughed out loud in surprise.

"Then you must be having the time of your life."

Athos hid a smile. His relationship with Aramis might have been a little abrasive, but he valued the man's openness, and was nothing but glad to be in his company. 

The sound of marching feet made them both look up, abruptly serious. There were too many footsteps for it to be D'Artagnan and Porthos returning by a different route and without having to confer Athos and Aramis moved away from each other, giving the other room to draw his sword should it become necessary.

A complement of Red Guards rounded the corner and came to a halt in front of them. 

"You are the Comte de la Fère?" asked the captain roughly and without deference.

"I am." Athos regarded him coolly.

"You and your man here are to accompany us."

Athos exchanged a look with Aramis. "To what end? And on whose orders?"

"You don't need to know."

"Is that so?" Athos raised an eyebrow. "In that case I rather think we will decline your invitation."

"We have orders to take you by force if you resist," he was told, the captain smiling unpleasantly at the prospect and the soldiers behind him overtly loosening the swords in their scabbards.

Athos looked over at Aramis. "I don't know about you, but I suspect if we were to accompany these fine gentlemen we would never reach our destination," he murmured.

"What do you propose?" Aramis asked. While he was entirely willing to make a stand, even he had to admit they were massively outnumbered. He wondered briefly whether Porthos and D'Artagnan had run into the same trouble and hoped they were alright.

"Tactical withdrawal?" Athos suggested with an air of amusement at such odds with their situation that Aramis smiled despite himself. He nodded quick agreement, and Athos turned back to the impatient guards. "Gentlemen." He raised his hat. "If you'll excuse us." 

At that, he and Aramis turned as one and hared down the corridor in the direction D’Artagnan and Porthos had taken, leaving the guards standing frozen in utter surprise. They had been prepared for resistance but such was their confidence in their own numbers that they hadn't bothered to cover both exits, and several vital seconds passed before they set out in pursuit.

"I don't like running away," Aramis panted as they slammed round a corridor and kept going. 

"Neither do I," Athos agreed. "But I like insurmountable odds even less. Death by stupidity might be honourable but it's still death." They rounded another corner and skidded to a halt as they saw a second group of guards coming the other way.

Aramis groaned. "Do you ever feel you should have stayed in bed?"

"Frequently." Athos pulled him to the side and through a door. Beyond was a flight of steps leading up and they hastily started to climb.

"Do you know where you're going?" Aramis demanded, following Athos up the steep spiral staircase and trying to avoid being hit in the face by his scabbard.

"There's a way through," Athos called back without slowing. "At least there used to be. It's been a while since I was here," he confessed, slamming through the door at the top with relief, lungs protesting and grateful to find the chamber beyond empty. He and Aramis ran to the opposite door and kept going through the room beyond, only to be brought up short in a painful collision with the far door, which turned out to be bolted from the other side.

"Damn it!" Aramis rattled it futilely, and they turned at bay to see the guards spilling out of the stairway behind them.

Athos threw himself back across the room, slamming the connecting door shut just as the first guards raised their pistols to fire. A split second after the heavy oak crashed into place, the sound of a shot hit the wood on the other side and he swore. By now Aramis was back at his side and together they shot the bolts into place, stepping back apprehensively as the guards banged against the door with all their weight. But the construction was sturdy and the bolts made from good iron, and to their immense relief it held.

They leaned against each other, getting their breath back.

"I'm sorry," Athos sighed bitterly. "It seems I've sealed our fate by leading us up here."

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder. "Not your fault. It was a good idea." He looked ruefully at the locked door barring their escape. "It's entirely possible they intended to herd us up here anyway. Shoot us like rats in a barrel. Still, we're not dead yet," he added with a cheerful determination. 

There was a renewed battering on the door, but despite the best efforts of the increasingly furious guards on the other side, for the moment it held fast.

\--

Upon reaching the Cardinal's rooms and being made to wait for some considerable time, D'Artagnan and Porthos were finally met by a blank-faced clerk who informed them there had been no such summons, and that Richelieu was in fact no longer even in the palace. Retracing their footsteps in some bemusement, they were even more confused when they reached the place they'd left Athos and Aramis to find them gone.

"There's something funny going on here," Porthos growled. "I don't like this. Athos said they'd wait."

D'Artagnan shrugged. "We were a long time. I guess all we can do is see if they've gone back to the house."

Porthos muttered under his breath but could suggest no better plan and they left the palace together. It being but a short distance from the house they had arrived on foot, and were halfway back when a company of guards rounded the corner and stood arrayed across the whole width of the narrow street before them.

D'Artagnan stiffened and his hand went defensively to the hilt of his sword. Porthos laid a hand on his shoulder. 

"Let's not be too hasty," he murmured. "Could be they're just passing by." At this point a noise behind them heralded the arrival of a second group of soldiers behind them, and their hearts sank.

"Suppose it's too much to hope you boys are here to fight each other?" D'Artagnan called out brightly. 

"You the Comte d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan and Porthos exchanged a glance. 

"No?" said D'Artagnan hopefully.

The guard captain glared at him and he shrugged philosophically. "Well it was worth a try. What have we done, incidentally?"

"Made a dangerous enemy," came the unhelpful answer, and it was followed by a general drawing of swords.

Once again, D'Artagnan and Porthos looked at each other, this time in shared anger and a determination to acquit themselves with both honour and extreme prejudice. They drew their own swords and without conferring stood back to back, facing out at the approaching threat. 

The cold, sinking thought occurred to both of them that perhaps the same ambush had befallen Athos and Aramis, but there was no time to dwell on it and before another minute had passed they were fighting for their lives.

Despite the fact that D'Artagnan and Porthos were outnumbered five to one, the narrowness of the street meant not all the guards could attack them at once and this proved their salvation, coupled with the fact the soldiers were acting on instructions their deaths were to look like the result of a fencing duel and had therefore hesitated to draw pistols until it was too late. 

Desperation leant an extra edge to their fighting skills, and Porthos and D'Artagnan slashed and parried and punched and in one instance headbutted their opponents until only two were left standing.

The four men eyed each other, having pulled back to draw breath and take stock. The bodies of eight Red Guards littered the roadway, six of them dead and two immobilised and groaning.

"What are you waiting for?" D'Artagnan shouted, voice hoarse and furious. "Come here and let us finish you off you traitorous scum!" 

Beside him Porthos laughed, taken by D'Artagnan's impetuous bravado and the unexpected fact they appeared to be winning. Then he realised one of the guards had drawn from his cloak a small but deadly looking explosive and was lighting the fuse.

"He's got a bomb!" Porthos yelled, hurling his dagger across the intervening space even as he formed the words. The knife took the man in the throat and he fell backwards with a gurgling scream, but the bomb had already left his hand, sailing high over their heads.

They had barely a second to think that he had missed them after all, before it hit the wall behind them and the world fell in.

\--

Trapped in their chamber with no means of escape, Athos and Aramis were sitting with their backs against the wall listening to the Red Guards trying unsuccessfully to break down the door, when all of a sudden the noise ceased. 

After a moment's silence, a sharp, imperious knocking made them both jump. 

"They've become very polite all of a sudden," Aramis murmured.

Athos stifled the ridiculous urge to laugh. "What do you want?" he shouted instead, as they both got to their feet warily facing the door.

"Olivier? Is that you, dearest? " The mocking voice belonged to Milady, and all trace of a smile vanished from his face. 

"Give yourself up now and we'll let you live," he called sternly.

"My, how generous." Harsh laughter in return. "But I'm the one holding all the cards. Why would I give in now?"

"You think you can just _kill_ us? In the palace of all places? You won't get away with this, you do realise?"

"Who's going to stop me? I hope you aren't under the illusion that help might be on its way. We've already seen to your friends." 

Athos and Aramis looked at each other in cold dread. 

"I don't believe you."

"Oh, they died screaming. It was beautiful."

"Now I definitely don't believe you," Athos retorted. "If you'd said they died trying to rip your throat out I'd have been more convinced."

"Well, I really don't care if you believe me or not. If you come out, I can show you the bodies. Otherwise, we've sent a man for an axe. Only a matter of time, husband."

Then there was silence from the other side, and Athos and Aramis stared at each other.

"You don't think - ?" Aramis said, looking haggard.

"Honestly? I have no idea," Athos confessed, sliding back to sit on the floor. "I hope not, with all my heart. But the only reason we're not dead right now is this door. If they ran into the same numbers - " He let the thought trail off and rested his forehead on his knees, shoulders shaking.

"They're not dead.” Aramis shook his head. "We'd know. We'd feel it. Wouldn't we?"

Athos looked up and took a steadying breath, and Aramis realised he was quivering with rage rather than tears. "Either way I'm not going down without a fight. I'm taking as many of those bastards down with me as I can."

"Agreed. Could we shoot our way out?" Aramis wondered, fingering his pistol thoughtfully. 

"There are too many of them," said Athos. "We'd never have time to reload. We'd only get one shot each."

"Could be enough to make them hesitate?" Aramis persisted. "Clear a path?"

Athos shook his head. "I'm saving this shot," he murmured, weighing his own gun in his hand with a grim expression. "For her."

\--

"Look out!" Porthos shoved D'Artagnan bodily forwards, sending him sprawling out of the way of the falling stonework. His own momentum arrested by the action, he wasn't quick enough to clear the collapse and fell to the ground with a bellow of as much rage as pain as the heavy blocks slammed into his body.

D'Artagnan scrambled to his feet, groping for his dropped sword, and as their last remaining attacker approached through the settling clouds of dust expecting to find both of them crushed beneath the rubble, he was instead met by the point of D'Artagnan's blade.

Ducking back out of range, he turned and fled. D'Artagnan took a step forward, intending to give chase and finish him off when a groan made him hesitate, and instead he threw down his sword again, running to where Porthos was trying to drag himself out of the rubble. D'Artagnan quickly pulled the stones away from him with his bare hands, his fingers soon torn and bleeding. 

Eventually Porthos was uncovered, and D'Artagnan tried to help him to his feet only for Porthos to cry out as his leg gave way under him and they both subsided to the ground.

"Sorry," Porthos managed through gritted teeth. "I don't think I can stand."

D'Artagnan looked around frantically. For the moment they were thankfully alone, the injured guards now buried somewhere beneath the wall, but it could only be a matter of time before the last man returned with reinforcements. D’Artagnan cursed himself for not finishing him, knowing that he'd never be able to carry Porthos to safety on his own.

"D'Artagnan. Get out of here." Porthos grasped his shoulder and forced the words out against the pain.

"I'm not leaving you." D'Artagnan objected. "They could return at any moment, you can't even stand. You'd be defenceless."

"Doesn't matter about me," Porthos told him. "You need to get out of here. You could fetch help."

D'Artagnan gave him a look. "You think Athos would ever forgive me if I left you to die?"

"He'd rather see you safe."

D'Artagnan gave a short laugh. "You think so?" He dropped to the ground, leaned back against the rubble and sighed. "I'm not leaving you. So there."

"Athos - "

"This is nothing to do with Athos. I'm not leaving you. _I'm_ not leaving you." D'Artagnan looked at him, as if realising something for the first time. "I'd never forgive myself. Particularly given you just saved my life."

Porthos studied him for a moment, then broke into a pained smile. "Stubborn little bastard ain't ya?"

"It's my most endearing feature." They laughed, and leaned against each other in companionable, bloodstained exhaustion.

"The others'll find us, right?" D'Artagnan murmured after a while. Unwilling to voice the thought that Athos and Aramis might never be coming.

"Course they will." Porthos' gruff determination was comforting, even though D'Artagnan knew he had no more idea than him. The odds were that the guards would be back to finish them off long before Athos and Aramis happened across them, even supposing they were still alive.

"Thanks." Porthos looked sideways at him. "For staying, yeah?"

D'Artagnan nodded acknowledgement, then sighed, staring at the ground.

"I was so jealous of you at first, you know," he confessed quietly.

Porthos stared at him, incredulity written on his face. "Well that's officially a first. I don't think anyone's ever envied me before."

D'Artagnan smiled sheepishly. "It always felt like - I don't know. That you and Athos understood each other better. I kind of knew he liked me, but never felt that he really _got_ me. Or me him, I suppose." He sighed. "You and he - just had this instinctive connection right from the start. You can make him smile, make him laugh. More than I ever manage."

Porthos listened to this in silence. "You don't see how often he smiles at you when you're not looking," he said quietly.

D'Artagnan looked startled. "Well what's the point in that?" he blurted, and Porthos laughed loudly, then winced.

"Ow. Don't make me laugh, it hurts."

Immediately, D’Artagnan was contrite. "Do you think it's broken?" he asked, reaching out tentatively towards Porthos' leg, only to have his hand slapped away.

"Not sure. Hoping it's just twisted, but - " Porthos grimaced. "Hurts like fuck either way. Give me a minute. Then I'll see if I can stand again. If they keep their distance a bit longer we might still make it."

They sat in silence for a while, Porthos breathing hard, trying to master the pain.

"Do you love him?" D'Artagnan asked suddenly, out of the blue.

Porthos shot him a wary look, unsure who he was referring to. "Aramis?" he said carefully. "Yes."

D'Artagnan picked at his thumbnail. "And Athos?"

Porthos sighed. "Athos loves you. What good will my answer do either of us?"

D'Artagnan looked at him, coming to a decision. "He loves you."

"No he doesn't," Porthos lied obstinately. Recalling Athos' face in the dim light of the stable, the feeling of holding Athos in his arms. Their quiet declarations to each other, no less heartfelt for being hopeless, knowing they'd made their choices and that this could never happen again. 

"Does. He told me." D'Artagnan smiled slightly at the expression on Porthos' face. "Oh, he loves me too. But - yeah." He shrugged. "You were the one who said I should talk to him more. So I did. Have been. We're being - honest with each other. Perhaps for the first time."

Porthos processed this, wondering why D'Artagnan was telling him. It seemed cruel, to bring up something he couldn't have. And it raised another question, one he should have seen coming earlier.

"Do you love Aramis then?" he asked.

It was D'Artagnan's turn to look startled.

"I - " He looked down, and Porthos reached out, resting a hand over his.

"You can be honest."

D'Artagnan pursed his lips cautiously. "Perhaps," he said. Porthos snorted, and he sighed. "Fine. Alright, yes. And you, Athos?"

Porthos sighed too. "Yes."

They considered each other. 

"And where does that get us?" Porthos asked finally.

D'Artagnan looked away. "I don't really know," he confessed. "We'd need to - talk to them. Work something out, maybe."

"Assuming they're alive," Porthos said gloomily. 

"Don't say that! Of course they are."

They stared down the street bleakly for a while. Porthos looked at D'Artagnan.

"Maybe you _should_ go for help," he said. 

D'Artagnan looked surprised. "And where do you suggest I get it from? Those guards were from the palace in case you hadn't noticed."

"There's always the Musketeers?" Porthos suggested.

"And by the time I've found them? And explained? And convinced someone to come back with me? You'd be dead." D'Artagnan sighed. "And you know that, don't you? You're trying to get rid of me."

"I want you to live," Porthos said quietly. "Is that so bad?"

D'Artagnan leaned back against his shoulder with a sigh. "I'm not leaving you," he said stubbornly. "And that's an end of it."

\--

"I owe you an apology," Aramis said quietly. They'd been sitting there for some time, awaiting the man with the supposed axe. There wasn't really anything else they could do. They'd barricaded the far door, in case anyone tried to come at them from that direction, but so far all was quiet.

"Do you?" Athos turned his head to look at him.

"For what happened with D'Artagnan."

Athos shook his head. "As far as I'm concerned, it's in the past," he said. "It's forgotten."

"And forgiven?"

Athos looked at him and smiled. "And forgiven. Besides - "

Aramis shrugged, picking up on his meaning. "Porthos? As long as you both enjoyed it, then - I guess I don't have a problem." He gave a short laugh. "You must think I have a dreadfully immoral approach to sex."

"Actually, I rather envy you," Athos admitted. 

"Does D'Artagnan know? That you - ?"

"Yes." Athos sighed. "We're - working on talking to each other more. I'm not sure either of us is particularly good at it."

"Sex is a lot easier," Aramis smiled. 

Athos gave a quiet laugh. "Is it?"

"Generally." 

"For you maybe. Not all us have your advantages," Athos said, looking Aramis up and down appraisingly.

Aramis looked back at him and wondered how it was possible that Athos genuinely appeared to have no clue just how fucking attractive he was.

Athos' mind was still preoccupied with more sober thoughts. 

"He refused to leave you, you know. Porthos. I was going to walk out. I thought you and D'Artagnan only wanted each other. I asked him to come with me." 

This time Aramis was stunned into silence. Athos looked at him apologetically. "If we're going to die here, I thought you should probably know that."

"You - " Aramis gaped at him, and Athos flushed. 

"Sorry."

Aramis was still staring at him, realising for the first time that that awful day Athos had faced rejection from both the men he loved. And that despite everything, despite the betrayals of his wife, despite his trust issues, despite his lack of belief that anyone might be attracted to him for his own sake, instead of walking out or murdering them all in their beds, Athos was still here, was still fighting for the chance at a love he somehow still cleaved to against all the odds.

Athos shifted awkwardly, misinterpreting Aramis scrutiny as anger at what he'd said. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I didn't - I only meant - "

He never got to finish the sentence, because Aramis had leaned in and kissed him hard on the mouth.

"Okay," Athos said slowly when Aramis pulled back. "Of all possible reactions, I confess I wasn't expecting that."

Aramis gave him an embarrassed grin. "I told you. Sex is easier than talking."

"Well I know this might be our last five minutes of life, but I still think you ought to at least buy me a drink first," Athos murmured, and Aramis burst out laughing.

"Sorry. That was - I shouldn't have done that."

"Why did you?" Athos asked curiously. 

" _Because_ this might be our last five minutes of life?" Aramis said. "Or maybe because you deserve to know how many people think you're amazing, and the two who would be saying it with their last breath aren't here." He caught Athos' stunned expression and winked at him. "Also, possibly I just wanted to and this might be my last chance."

The thud of an axe meeting oak made them both jump, and they scrambled to their feet. 

"Do we have a plan yet?" Aramis asked, drawing his pistol in one hand and his sword in the other.

"I was thinking - open the door, take them by surprise, kill every living thing we can reach?" Athos suggested.

"It's insane. I like it." Aramis grinned at him.

"Aramis - Milady. She's mine." Athos raised his pistol meaningfully.

"Understood."

They stared at the door, already starting to splinter under the blows of the axe. 

"We're going to die, aren't we?" Aramis sighed.

"Sooner or later." Athos looked at him and smiled. "Later, would be better."

Together they took hold of the bolts, and on a signal from Athos threw them back and heaved open the door.

The first guard behind the door took Aramis' single shot between his eyes and was dead before he knew what had happened; the guard behind him fell a second later when Aramis reversed the gun with a deft flick and knocked him sideways with the butt. By now Athos was through the doorway with room to swing, and sliced through the man's neck before he had time to recover his balance, gutting a second guard with the reverse stroke as he jerked his sword free.

A shot cracked out and wood splinters burst from the door; Athos reached behind him, yanked out the axe that was still embedded in the wood around the lock and hurled it at the marksman all in one fluid motion. The man fell back, the axe lodged in his skull, and blood pooled silently on the marble floor.

Aramis had thrown his empty pistol to one side, his sword already in his hand, and the next few minutes were a blur of steel and blood as he and Athos fought for their lives. Although still outnumbered, Aramis and Athos attacked with a savage determination that forced the guards into defensive and haphazard movements, never letting them capitalise on their advantage of numbers or form a coordinated attack. 

One by one the guards fell to their blades until with a sense of surprise Athos and Aramis discovered they were the last men left standing; panting and weary, but unmistakeably still alive.

Athos wasn't sure if it was a movement or just some prickling sense of being watched that alerted him to the fact they were not, however, alone. By the window, standing stock still as if she could pass unnoticed through sheer force of will, was Milady de Winter.

He raised his pistol and levelled it at her head.

"No!" She raised a hand in instinctive, protesting defence.

"It's kinder than you deserve," Athos said grimly.

"Athos - wait. Your friends are still alive. I lied before. I can call off the men - but if you kill me there'll be no-one to stop them." 

Athos could almost see the calculation in her eyes as she spoke, seizing on the one thing that might stay his hand, taking confidence from the fact of his hesitation, that he had not yet fired. 

"Why should I believe you?" he said tiredly. "You haven't stopped lying from the moment I met you."

"You would rather believe your friends are already lost to you?"

Athos shook his head, never moving his eyes from her for a second. Conscious of Aramis behind him, silent, watchful. Not interfering with whatever Athos decided to do.

"Tell me where they are."

"If I tell you, you'll have no reason not to kill me. I'll show you." She made to take a step forward, but stopped at the look on Athos' face. It wasn't anger, or revenge, or hate. Just cold, implacable resolution.

"Athos - "

"Enough. You were sentenced. It's time someone carried it out."

"No!" The crack of the pistol made her flinch, and the smashing of glass a split second later felt like the world itself had shattered. For a second she believed herself dead, and then the wind tugged at her hair and she realised the truth. The shot had gone wide, the window behind her broken into fragments. She looked out and down, then back at Athos, gun still raised, unmoving. And threw herself out of the window, glass shards raining down around her.

For a moment there was silence. Athos slowly lowered the gun, sighing. Aramis stepped forward, laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Not like you, to miss at that distance," he murmured.

Athos looked at him, and his lips twitched. "Must be losing my touch."

Aramis patted him. "You did the right thing."

"Tell me that when we find them alive." Athos crossed to the window and looked down. A floor below, a tented pavilion lay in collapse on the lawn, but of Milady there was no sign.

\--

When the second company of guards appeared at the end of the road, Porthos and D'Artagnan sighed with a resigned finality. They had hoped for deliverance, they had hoped the guards had given up, they had hoped Porthos would have recovered enough to be able to walk, but in the end, it appeared hope was at an end, and all they had left was themselves.

"Help me up," Porthos demanded. "If I'm going to die, it's going to be on my feet." 

D'Artagnan grabbed him and with difficulty got Porthos upright. Hanging onto part of the shattered wall that blocked any idea of escape in that direction, Porthos managed to gain a standing position, favouring his uninjured leg and holding his sword out before him defiantly. 

D’Artagnan too drew his sword and took up a position slightly in front of Porthos. He would defend him to his last breath, there would be no surrender. They both knew to give themselves up would mean no more than a sly knife in the back as soon as they were taken and bound. There had been no sign of Athos or Aramis, and with a heavy heart D'Artagnan assumed they had met a similar fate. 

The six men that approached were hardfaced and businesslike, the sight of their fallen comrades making them increase their pace in rising anger. 

D'Artagnan did his best to engage them all, his sword flashing seemingly everywhere at once, but the clash of steel behind him told that that at least one had slipped past - although Porthos' enraged bellowing and the continued ring of swords suggested that even wounded he wasn't going down without a fight.

One man fell to D’Artagnan’s sword but he paid the price, suffering a slash to his side and falling back, four men driving him into a corner. He knew now he wouldn't make it. Exhaustion and pain made him dizzy, and for a second it seemed there were more than four men in front of him. Had reinforcements arrived? How many men could they send to kill two of them? How was that fair?

And then suddenly his sword met fresh air as the man he'd parried fell backwards into the dirt, and somehow Aramis was there instead, grinning at him.

D'Artagnan blinked and realised Athos was there too, was even now pulling his sword from the back of the man who'd had Porthos at bay, and D’Artagnan yelled with a savage triumph.

Barely another minute saw the last three men fall before them, and then there was silence but for gasping breath.

"Where the fuck have you been?" D’Artagnan demanded, it being a choice between that or throwing himself into Athos' arms in sobbing relief.

"Took your bloody time," Porthos agreed in a growl, and promptly sagged to his knees and collapsed sideways in the roadway with a groan of pain.

"Porthos!" Aramis dropped to his side in alarm. "You're injured?" 

"My leg," Porthos panted, swallowing down the urge to scream with the pain. "I'm not cut. Just - I think half of Paris fell on me."

"What _happened_ here?" Athos asked, looking at the devastation in amazement. 

"They tried to blow us up," D’Artagnan told him with a certain amount of indignation, and pressing down on the cut in his own side with a wince. "Not what I call a fair fight." 

Athos smiled at him, and for the first time D'Artagnan realised that he and Aramis were both carrying shallow wounds, dried blood streaking their faces and shirtsleeves.

"What happened to you?" he asked, reaching out in concern. Athos took his hand and squeezed it, relieved beyond measure to find them both alive.

"Same as you, I imagine. We were ambushed and attacked. Or we'd have been here earlier," he added apologetically, looking over at Porthos, who caught his eye and gave a pained laugh.

"We had it covered," Porthos told him, then sucked in a breath as Aramis examined his leg.

"I don't think it's broken," Aramis pronounced. "Just bruised and sprained." He shook his head and smiled with relief. "Next time maybe move quicker?"

Porthos glared at him, and D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "He pushed me out of the way," he said quietly. "He saved my life." Porthos transferred his glare to D'Artagnan, and he shrugged unrepentantly. "Well, you did."

"And then the little shit refused to abandon me, so it was almost all for naught," Porthos grumbled, and Aramis slapped him admonishingly on the arm. 

At this point the sound of footsteps echoed in the street and the four of them looked round in alarm to find a group of soldiers standing at the corner.

"Not again," groaned D'Artagnan, reaching for his sword, but Athos stayed him with a warning hand. 

"Wait. They're not Red Guards. Let's see what they want." He got to his feet warily, his hand close to his sword but not drawing as the men approached. They were wearing the blue cloaks and insignia of the Musketeers, and he vaguely recognised the man in the lead. 

"What in the name of God happened here?"

"We were set upon," Athos said calmly. D'Artagnan too had got to his feet and come to his side, Aramis was hovering defensively in front of Porthos. 

"We were returning home when these men attacked us for no reason. We defended ourselves, naturally."

"Naturally," the man murmured, looking at the slew of corpses in the road with astonishment. "Who the hell are you people?"

"I am the Comte de la Fère," said Athos with a slight sigh. "This is the Comte d'Artagnan, and these are our men. May I ask whom I have the honour of addressing?"

"My name is Treville, I am a Captain of the King's Musketeers." Treville peered more closely at them and huffed. "Yes, I recognise you now. You were at court earlier. You're the pair his majesty made wed each other."

"Indeed." Athos inclined his head slightly.

Treville snorted. "And you claim this was an unprovoked attack? On whose orders?"

Athos hesitated. To claim this was the Cardinal's work with no proof could be dangerous. "I believe it was on the orders of a Milady de Winter," he said. 

"A woman! Commanding Red Guards?" Treville scoffed.

"It is possible that - she works as an agent for the Cardinal," Athos said carefully.

Treville stared at him. "That's a dangerous accusation, young man."

"I make no accusations," Athos told him, holding his gaze calmly. "That is merely what she told me. I have no way of proving it, or any idea of her current whereabouts."

Behind them Porthos tried to get up, feeling at a disadvantage lying in the roadway while their fates were decided, and groaned at the fresh wave of pain.

Athos frowned, turning back to Treville. "May we return home? My friend here is injured and needs attention."

Treville considered. "Give me your address, and your parole that you won't attempt to leave Paris until this matter is concluded," he asked finally.

Athos nodded. "You have it." He gave Treville the location of their house, and the two men shook hands.

Athos turned to D'Artagnan and Aramis, and between the three of them they got Porthos upright again. 

Porthos looked bewildered. "What, that's it, we can just go?" He'd expected the lot of them to be summarily thrown into prison, at least until things could be sorted out.

"Yes," Athos nodded, one arm firmly around Porthos' waist, as he helped Aramis half-carry him along. "I gave my word we would not leave town."

"And that was good enough?"

"Naturally." Athos raised an eyebrow. 

Porthos snorted. "The word of a gentleman, eh? Different fucking world from the one I'm used to." 

Athos smiled. "Had it been a massacre of their own men, I suspect they'd have been less inclined to let us go so easily," he admitted. "Let's get out of here before they change their minds."

They regained the house without further molestation, and bolted the door behind them with considerable relief. Getting Porthos up the stairs proved a challenge finally overcome with a lot of swearing, and by the time he was laid on his bed, Porthos was almost fainting from the pain.

They helped him off with most of his clothes and Aramis strapped his leg with bandages and ordered him to lie still. He mixed a medicinal draught for the pain and ordered Porthos to drink it.

"Ugh. It tastes vile."

"That's how you know it's good for you. Drink the rest or I'll poke you where it hurts."

Porthos glowered at him. "I want a better nurse," he muttered. "And a prettier one wouldn't hurt." But he screwed up his face and drained the cup, and Aramis kissed him approvingly on the forehead. 

"Sleep now," he murmured. "You'll feel better when that takes effect."

While Porthos dozed, the rest of them tended their own wounds and changed their clothes, regrouping around Porthos' bed, feeling tired but relieved.

Porthos blinked up at them vaguely, smiling around at each of them on a cloud of drugged euphoria. He reached out and took Aramis' hand. "I love you," he slurred.

"I love you too," Aramis smiled down at him, amused.

" _And_ I love you." Porthos turned his head and looked up at Athos, with an unfocussed grin.

Athos coloured slightly, but he smiled back at Porthos warmly and nodded unprotesting acknowledgement. "What exactly was in that mixture you gave him?" he murmured in an aside to Aramis.

"And is there any left?" D'Artagnan put in, grinning. This drew Porthos' attention, and he reached out to D'Artagnan.

"I love you, too."

"Me?" D'Artagnan settled on the side of the bed, smiling at him.

"You're a little lion, with a kind heart." Porthos took D'Artagnan's hand in both of his, and patted it.

D'Artagnan laughed. "Lion I like. Less sure about the little."

At that moment there was a banging on the door below, and Athos touched Aramis on the arm.

"We'd better attend to this." said Athos. "It might be trouble."

"We can leave the little lion on guard." Aramis smirked.

D'Artagnan gave him a squinty look. "I hate you," he sighed, resigned to the fact Aramis was unlikely to let him forget this for months to come.

Porthos in his medicated state took him literally, and reached out for D’Artagnan in distress.

"No - no, you don't hate him. You love him. You _told_ me," he insisted.

D'Artagnan flushed, aware of Aramis and Athos staring at him in surprise, although to his relief they both looked amused. 

"We thought we were about to die," D'Artagnan said awkwardly. "They're not the sort of conversations that are supposed to be repeated."

Athos and Aramis exchanged a meaningful look. Below the banging came again, louder this time, and Athos sighed. "Come on."

They hurried down the stairs and Athos unbolted the door, Aramis tensed and ready for trouble should anyone attempt to burst in. To their relief, it was Treville, with two Musketeers at his back.

"Captain." Athos stood back and allowed him entrance, leading them into the parlour.

"Well. I appear to be at an impasse," Treville announced. "No-one claims responsibility for giving the order to attack your party, and all the witnesses are dead."

"And Milady?"

Treville shook his head. "No-one's admitting to having heard of her. Certainly not the Cardinal." He gave them both a penetrating look. "There was a second company of Red Guards discovered dead in a room of the palace. I don't suppose you'd know anything about that?"

Athos and Aramis resisted looking at each other. 

"Not a thing," said Aramis innocently, shaking his head.

"No, no idea," Athos echoed. "How unfortunate. What a bad day they appear to be having."

Treville sighed irritably. "I'm here to tell you you are free to go." 

"The Cardinal did not wish to bring charges against us?" Athos asked, surprised they were being let off so easily. They had, after all, killed a considerable number of men, with no military standing of their own to use as justification.

"He did." Treville looked at them, blank faced. "But I was somewhat delayed in bringing him the news, and had to see him while he was with his Majesty. King Louis was most indignant to hear you'd been attacked, and would like it known your whole group is under his personal protection - which in effect means me."

"I see." Athos bowed gravely. "Then I am most obliged to you." Sensing that they owed their liberty to Treville's action and timing. Also perhaps to the fact Richelieu might want to forget the humiliating defeat as quickly as possible.

Treville took his leave of them, but paused in the doorway. "You boys ever consider a change of career, you'll come to me first, yes?" he said with a hint of a smile, and then he was gone. 

\--

Upstairs, D'Artagnan was trying unsuccessfully to listen to what was happening below, with Porthos constantly trying to hug him. Eventually he gave in and laughed, letting Porthos draw him down on the bed, and hugged him back, glad at the way Porthos immediately looked so happy.

"How are you doing? D'Artagnan asked, smiling.

"Feel all floaty," Porthos told him, and D'Artagnan laughed. 

"Well, no floating off now, okay? You stay right here in bed."

"Mmmn." Porthos drew him closer and before D'Artagnan realised his intention, had kissed him on the mouth.

"Hey!" D’Artagnan pulled back laughing. "I can't kiss you."

"Why not?" Porthos protested, stroking D’Artagnan’s hair and trying to pull him close enough to kiss him again.

"Because."

"Give me three good reasons," Porthos demanded triumphantly, bringing D’Artagnan’s hand to his mouth instead and kissing him on the inside of the wrist.

D’Artagnan felt an undeniable shiver of pleasure, but retrieved his hand gently, smiling at him. "Aright. One - Athos. Two - Aramis. Three - you're off your face."

"All invalid," Porthos announced.

D'Artagnan laughed. "Why?"

"None of them was that you don't want to."

D’Artagnan kissed him on the brow instead, smiling. "You've got me there. But I'm going to see what's keeping the others." He rose from the bed and made his escape.

\--

With Treville and the Musketeers departed, Athos and Aramis had gone to the kitchen to fetch some food for the four of them.

"I'd dearly love to have been a fly on the wall when Porthos and D’Artagnan thought their hour had come," Aramis said, thinking of Porthos' earlier words and wondering what had passed between them. 

Athos hid a smile. "What, you're wondering if Porthos was as impertinent as you? You think they might have kissed each other?"

"Impertinent is it now? I don't remember you pushing me off." Aramis came closer, moving with a slow intent and cornering Athos against the table. Athos didn’t move, holding his gaze boldly. 

Aramis came closer, closer, and finally kissed him with a firm deliberation. After a second Athos folded into his embrace, returning his kisses with interest.

A noise in the doorway made them break apart, and they turned in guilty surprise to find they were being watched.

"D'Artagnan." Aramis sounded startled; Athos couldn't find his voice at all.

D'Artagnan stared at them with an unreadable expression, then opened his hands to the heavens with a expression of exasperation and turned and walked out.

Exchanging a look of shame, Athos and Aramis hurried after him, dashing up the stairs calling his name. They halted in the doorway to Porthos and Aramis' bedroom, frozen by the sight that met their eyes. 

D'Artagnan appeared to have thrown himself full length onto the bed and was kissing Porthos with a passion that was being returned with an unreserved enthusiasm.

When they finally broke apart, Porthos looked dazed and D’Artagnan looked defiant. He turned to find Athos and Aramis watching in silence, and was more relieved than he'd care to admit that neither of them looked angry.

Aramis glanced enquiringly at Athos, leaving it for him to comment. 

Athos sighed. "I suppose it's been that sort of day."

\--

They fetched food, and by the time they'd finished eating Porthos was fast asleep, sprawled diagonally across the bed. 

"Will you take another room?" Athos asked, but Aramis shook his head. 

"I'll sleep in here on the chaise. He might need me in the night."

Athos and D'Artagnan retired to their own room, both feeling as if they should have stayed, but knowing there was nothing they could usefully do, and sensing that Aramis might well want some time alone with Porthos after everything that had happened. 

D'Artagnan came to sit next to Athos on the bed. Athos had been too quiet, and D'Artagnan took his hand, glad that Athos immediately returned the pressure of his fingers. He tilted Athos' face and kissed him, looking enquiring.

"She told us you were dead," Athos said quietly. "Both of you." He lowered his eyes, covering D'Artagnan's hand with the other. 

"She was there?" D'Artagnan asked in surprise. Athos nodded. "What happened?"

"I let her go. I don't know where she is now." Athos looked tired and defeated. "I thought I'd lost you," he breathed.

D’Artagnan took him into his arms then and kissed him, and after a while Athos untensed and sank against him thankfully. They climbed into bed and simply held each other for a long time, offering and receiving silent comfort.

In the room next door, Porthos stirred and peered blearily at Aramis across the room.

"What you doing over there?"

"I didn't want to disturb you," Aramis told him softly. 

Porthos just held out his hand, and Aramis slipped into bed beside him. By the time he was comfortable, Porthos was asleep again. Aramis wrapped an arm around him, and settled contentedly against his warmth.

\--

"So what now?"

The next morning Athos and D'Artagnan had risen and washed and dressed and then come to the realisation that they were at rather a loose end. After all the tension of the preceding days, it finally seemed like the threat might be over. 

"What do you mean?" Athos turned from the window to look at D'Artagnan, who was standing with his hands on his hips with a slight frown furrowing his eyes.

"Well - what happens now? To us. All of us? Do we just - carry on as before?"

"No," Athos said quietly, "I don't think we can do that now. Do you?"

"Then what? What do you want, Athos? _Really_ want?" D'Artagnan came over and slipped his arms around Athos' waist.

"What I can't have," Athos confessed in a whisper, after a moment's hesitation during which D'Artagnan kissed him encouragingly.

"And what's that? You can tell me. I promise."

"Everything. I want everything. I want you. I want Porthos. God help me, I even want Aramis." Athos gave him guilty eyes, as if expecting censure.

D'Artagnan kissed him again, lips soft against his mouth. "Athos - so do I. And I think - so do they. We should at least ask."

Athos gave a faint laugh. "Be my guest. Good luck phrasing _that_ question."

\--

They took breakfast in to the others, and were glad to find Porthos was awake and lucid, and looking a lot better than he had the day before. He grinned when he saw them, then stared at D'Artagnan as an unexpected memory came back to him.

"Did I kiss you last night?" Porthos asked slowly.

D’Artagnan snorted and sat on the bed. "Technically I kissed you. It was sort of - revenge."

"How do you revenge yourself on someone by kissing them?" Porthos asked, confused and laughing.

"Not on you, you idiot. On them." He nodded in the direction of Athos and Aramis. "Found them kissing each other. Downstairs." 

At this, Aramis gave a snort of laughter and D’Artagnan blushed. "In the kitchen!" he clarified hastily.

"Were they indeed?" Porthos looked over at them and smirked. 

"Do you mind?" Aramis asked, sitting down on the other side of him. 

"Only that I missed seeing it," Porthos murmured, and Aramis kissed him, smiling.

Athos joined them on the bed. "I didn't get a chance to thank you," he told Porthos quietly. "For saving D'Artagnan yesterday."

Porthos shrugged. "Well, he pretty much saved me right back, so - I figure we're quits." He reached out and took Athos' hand in his. "Aramis told me about Milady. You okay?"

Athos sighed, hardly knowing if he was or if he wasn't, and Porthos rubbed comforting circles over his knuckles with his thumb. "You did right," Porthos murmured. "Enough people died yesterday."

"And what if me being too weak to end her means this starts all over again?" Athos burst out. "What if she sends more people after us?"

"Then we'll see them off too," Aramis retorted. "But given what happened yesterday, I should be surprised if she did. For a start there can't be many left."

This surprised a guilty laugh out of Athos, and he relaxed a little. "Still. I should have done it. I should have seen it through."

"Who says?" Aramis objected. "Who says it has to be you? If you ask me, you're the last person that should have that responsibility on your shoulders. Leave it to others. You're afraid we're still in danger, but you know what I think? I think after yesterday's debacle she'll be in more danger from the Cardinal than we are. If I was Richelieu and I'd just lost that many of my best men? I'd be quite annoyed right now. And not necessarily with us. She's got any sense, she'll be miles away."

Aramis stopped to draw breath, and Athos stared at him. Aramis shrugged, unrepentant. "As far as we know, she's gone," Aramis said. "And we're still here. And if she comes back, well, we'll still be here." He took hold of Athos' other hand, and raised it to his lips. 

Blushing slightly, as Athos retrieved his hand he felt D'Artagnan's hand come to rest on his thigh, and under the covers, Porthos' knee bumped to a rest against his own. 

There was a certain amount of covert glances sent between them then, and a number of heavy sighs as one by one each tried to muster the courage to say something, and then lost their nerve.

"Well, there's one obvious answer to all of this," Porthos said finally. They all looked at him and he flushed. "Oh come on, do I have to be the one to say it?"

"A foursome?" said Aramis after a second, managing to sound both impressed and scandalised.

Everyone stared at Aramis with their mouths slightly open and he shifted awkwardly. "What? Was that not - ?"

"Well, no." Porthos looked like he was trying not to laugh. "Actually I'd been going to suggest everyone was just able to swap partners as they felt like it." He grinned. "But I like your idea better."

There was a silence while everyone considered this, and came to the conclusion that they did too. Although - 

"Perhaps we should not jump into such a thing _just_ yet," said Athos quietly.

D'Artagnan turned to him indignantly. "Athos! You said - "

Athos raised a hand to forestall him. "And I'm not going back on it. I would simply remind you that you currently have a wound to the side and Porthos can barely stand - and that perhaps we should take those injuries into account before we plan on anything too strenuous?"

Aramis cleared his throat. "Also - reluctant as I am to be the voice of reason in such a situation - before we dive into something so potentially awkward we should probably discuss the logistics of such a union." He smiled briefly. "And I'm not talking about whose legs go where."

Quickly divining what he meant, Athos nodded. "Then, on the subject of positions," he said, allowing the snort of laughter from Porthos to pass without comment, "as you say, it would be awkward indeed - imbalanced, certainly - for such a liaison to take place between employers and staff." He held up his hand again to halt the sudden indignant outburst from D'Artagnan. "Let me finish. I propose, therefore, that from this moment on, the four of us draw an equal share of the income from the la Fère estate, and run it as equal partners."

Aramis looked stunned. "Athos, that's - that's huge. Are you sure?"

Athos nodded. "With you managing things, it's bringing in far more than it has for years. If anything, you deserve the greater share of the profits."

Aramis shook his head, looking choked. "An equal share would be more than sufficient," he murmured, clasping Athos' hand in his. "Thank you."

Porthos though, looked considerably more uncomfortable accepting it and shook his head protestingly. "Athos - no, I can't - such a gift - I've done nothing to deserve such a thing."

Athos smiled at him, wishing Porthos knew exactly how much he _had_ done. "If it wasn't for you three, I would still be rotting alone in that place, slowly drinking myself to death. You gave me back my life, Porthos. That's worth far more than any meagre income from the estate. Let me do this."

For a while Porthos stared at him, clearly conflicted, until something loosed inside him and he pulled Athos into a fierce embrace and kissed him hard.

When they pulled back Athos cleared his throat, glancing about at the others in embarrassment. "Sorry."

"See, that's my point exactly," Aramis declared, gesturing at him. "If we're going to do this, we need to be in a place where we don't feel the need to be constantly apologising to each other all the time, for stepping outside our original partners."

Porthos nodded. "Agreed. No apologies required. From _any_ of us." He squeezed Athos' hand meaningfully, making him smile.

"Agreed," D'Artagnan echoed, and promptly leaned over to kiss Aramis for good measure, although the urge to apologise immediately afterwards for the action was so plain on his face that Aramis clapped a hand over his mouth.

"No apologies," he insisted, and D'Artagnan spluttered with laughter against his fingers.

"Fine." D'Artagnan moved back, still laughing, then his expression became more serious and he regarded them all a little shyly. "I - would add to what Athos has said. That the income from my estates too should be divided between us."

When it looked like Aramis and Porthos were both about to protest, he quickly added, "I should warn you they've been sorely neglected these past few months, and I would appreciate whatever assistance you might render me. More than likely the offer is a poisoned chalice." He shrugged, giving them a lopsided smile.

After exchanging a long look, Aramis and Porthos both nodded speechless acceptance, and his smile increased to a pleased grin.

D'Artagnan felt arms slip round his waist from behind, and Athos brushed a kiss to his ear. "You are more than generous," he whispered. "I hope you don't feel my offer pressured you into matching it?"

"What, you think you're special?" D'Artagnan turned in his arms and kissed him on the mouth, still smiling. "You're right, anyway. We do this together or not at all." 

\--

With an accord settled between them, the sense of immediate pressure was lifted and the next few days passed in companionable domesticity. 

Porthos gradually recovered his strength and mobility, and despite being chastised for it by the others was hobbling around the house with the aid of a stick in a matter of days. With the passing of a single week he had managed to discard the stick altogether and was left only with fading bruises. D'Artagnan's wound too had healed quickly, although it was obvious he would carry the scar for the rest of his days. 

"Nothing to be ashamed of," Aramis told him, leaning in the doorway to D'Artagnan's bedroom. He'd found D'Artagnan examining the knitted wound with a resigned and rueful expression, and guessed his thoughts. "Scars maketh the man." He grinned, and D'Artagnan made a face at him.

"It's ugly."

"It'll fade." Aramis came right in and laid a hand on his shoulder. "And you're hardly the only one to be so marked. Or are my scars abhorrent to you?" he asked mildly.

"You know they're not." D'Artagnan looked up at him with a flush of heat, recalling a time he'd knelt between Aramis' legs and traced a scar the length of Aramis' hip with his tongue, knowing Aramis was remembering the same. Although perhaps now he could finally let go of the deep sense of guilt he associated with the memory.

"Can we - ?" D'Artagnan let the thought tail off, but Aramis was quick to guess his meaning. In a way they'd been waiting, all of them, for someone to initiate this final step. 

Aramis nodded. "I'll fetch the others," he murmured. "It needs to be all of us. At least this time."

D'Artagnan nodded quick assent, and Aramis hurried out of the room. He found Athos and Porthos in the kitchen, and they looked up in surprise at his abrupt entrance.

"Come on," Aramis declared. "Time for bed."

"It's not even noon," Athos said, looking slightly bewildered. Porthos snorted and grabbed his hand, hauling Athos to his feet.

"I don't think he wants to sleep," Porthos told him, and Aramis shot him a grin before disappearing back up the stairs.

"Oh. _Oh_." Athos stopped abruptly and Porthos bumped into him. "Are we - ?"

"Yes." 

"Right." Athos swallowed and looked uncertain. Porthos put his arms around him and nuzzled a kiss into his neck. They'd all spent the past week slowly exploring their new boundaries, and Porthos had taken great delight in the discovery he could make Athos blush furiously from just a touch of his lips. 

"Not changing your mind, I hope?" Porthos murmured. His arms were tight round Athos' waist, and he could feel the rise and fall of his breathing. He could feel too that Athos was increasingly interested below the waist, however nervous his expression might be.

Without waiting for a verbal answer Porthos smiled, a broad toothy grin of amusement. "Come on. Upstairs with you. Do you good to submit to the three of us," he added, knowing Athos' predilections.

Sure enough Athos' eyes fluttered closed in brief contemplation of this and he swayed slightly in Porthos' arms, leaning into his embrace. 

"I'm afraid of embarrassing myself," Athos confessed, breathing the words against Porthos' neck. He'd become comfortable enough sleeping with D'Artagnan, and would have given himself to Porthos alone without hesitation. But to relinquish control before all three of them was as daunting as much as the idea of it turned him on.

"You trust us?" Porthos asked quietly. Athos nodded. "Then trust that whatever you want - whatever you need - trust us to understand it. To love it as much as we love you. Nobody's going to laugh, or expect anything of you you don't want to give."

Athos was looking at him in quiet wonder, and Porthos promptly slapped him on the bottom. "Come on. They're waiting. Or do I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you up?" 

Athos' face creased into a smile. "Tempting," he murmured, and Porthos took his hand and lead him upstairs with a grin.

When they appeared in the doorway, Aramis and D'Artagnan broke off conversation and looked up with matching expressions of relief. 

"Everything alright?" Aramis asked cautiously. They'd taken so long to follow him up, both he and D'Artagnan had started to wonder if one of them had changed his mind.

"Of course." Porthos nodded confidently, and squeezed Athos' hand in his.

"Yes." Athos nodded too, quieter but no less assured. His pounding heart had calmed the longer Porthos had kept hold of his hand, and the tightness in his chest was now purely anticipation.

They moved across to join Aramis and D'Artagnan on the bed. D'Artagnan immediately knelt up and took Athos' face in his hands, kissing him in welcome and pleasure. When he moved away, Aramis immediately took his place. Athos could feel Porthos at his back, one strong arm wrapped around his waist, holding him close against his body as Aramis kissed him, soft and deep.

When Aramis finally relinquished his lips, Athos was short of breath. "This all seems a little one-sided," he murmured, flustered by their undivided attention.

Aramis smiled at him. "Perhaps we wanted to make sure you know we all desire you as much as we do each other," he said, suspecting that even now Athos might see himself as only there by default.

The colour remained in Athos' cheeks, but he smiled back warmly. "Then consider me convinced."

"What are we doing then?" Porthos asked, still nuzzling kisses into Athos' neck from behind. "By which I mostly mean who."

"I want to see you and Athos together," D'Artagnan told him, blushing slightly at his own words, but holding Porthos' gaze. It was true, he'd been unable to stop picturing them together ever since Athos had first confessed his feelings. His first jealous confusion had over time become a persistent and curious arousal, and he longed to watch them. Plus he suspected it was what Athos wanted above all else, and therefore almost certainly would contrarily not ask for.

Athos' stunned look and answering smile told him everything, and D'Artagnan grinned at him. 

"Show me, Athos," he murmured, leaning in to kiss him again. "Show me how you like it."

Athos felt Porthos reach around to start unlacing his shirt, and before he could protest that he was quite capable of undressing himself, Aramis had joined in with a smirk and was working his way down the fastenings of Athos' breeches.

"Let us enjoy ourselves," Porthos whispered against his ear, sensing that Athos was about to object. "You don't have to be _doing_ something, to make us happy."

Athos relaxed a little, and gave a nod of understanding. Gradually he was letting himself surrender to their will, and it felt good to be able to let go and stop worrying.

Aramis' fingers were teasingly slow on his buttons, and Athos could feel his cock swelling in response. Aramis gave no indication that he'd noticed, but the weight of his hands on Athos' groin became a little firmer, and their methodical progress somehow took them again and again over the steadily increasing bulge in the cloth. 

Porthos had lifted Athos' shirt right off by now, and was wriggling out of his own breeches with eager haste. D'Artagnan had half stripped and then paused, distracted by Aramis undressing Athos and watching them with a fixed and fascinated gaze. 

When they were all naked at last, Aramis produced a bottle of oil that he'd lifted on his brief trip down to the kitchen, with the air of a magician performing a trick. 

Porthos drew Athos back into his arms and nodded to Aramis, who settled back between Athos' legs and poured some of the contents carefully over his fingers.

"Alright?" he asked quietly and Athos nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Aramis smiled at him, letting his fingers slip deeper between Athos' splayed legs. Porthos' hand was moving slowly on Athos' cock, his arms holding him securely against him, and Aramis was conscious too of D'Artagnan to the side, stroking himself almost absent-mindedly, his eyes fixed on what they were doing.

Porthos smiled at Aramis over Athos' shoulder, hardly able to credit that they had all arrived at this place, where all could finally be shared and nothing regretted. He felt Athos' indrawn breath as Aramis finally put his fingers to good use, and felt his own cock throb in urgent response. 

He hugged Athos tighter, bracing and supporting him as Aramis worked between his legs, D'Artagnan helping him now, supplying more oil until even the bedsheets were sticky with it. 

"Ready for me?" Porthos rumbled against Athos' hair, and felt him shiver.

Athos tilted his head back to look at him, and his eyes were dark and desperate. Porthos kissed him, grinning, and jerked his head at D'Artagnan. "How about you bring some of that over here?"

D'Artagnan caught his meaning, and crawled round them with a wicked smile. He poured a little more of the oil into his hand and only hesitated for the fraction of second before wrapping his fingers around Porthos' cock for the first time. Porthos' moan of approval was encouraging, and D'Artagnan worked him for longer than necessary, enjoying the feel of him thick and hard in his hand.

"Enough," Porthos said finally, laughing hoarsely. "Or I won't last." He wrapped his arms around Athos and bore him face down to the bed, growling filthily soft promises in his ear.

He pushed a knee between Athos' legs and shoved them apart, taking his cock in one hand and spreading Athos open with the other. 

D'Artagnan watched wide-eyed, both startled and turned on by Porthos' rough treatment of him. Athos lay prone and submissive, breathing hard and fingers curling into the sheets but not voicing a single word of protest as Porthos pinned him down.

D'Artagnan felt Aramis slide an arm around his waist, and turned to him with a look of slightly questioning anxiety.

"Trust them," Aramis whispered, laying a kiss on D'Artagnan's bare shoulder. He knew from experience how gentle Porthos could be, knew he wouldn't be this forceful if he wasn't confident it was what Athos wanted.

Porthos finally took Athos with one hard thrust, and the groan D'Artagnan gave was louder than that from Athos. He stared in transfixed arousal, teeth buried in his lower lip and breathing hard as Porthos held Athos down by the wrists and drove brutally into him.

"Would you care to do a little more than watch?" Aramis murmured, amused by D'Artagnan's expression. He lay down and settled his arm over D'Artagnan's thigh, before dipping his head and taking D'Artagnan's cock into his mouth. This time the groan that escaped D'Artagnan's lips was deeper and dirtier, and he tangled his fingers convulsively in Aramis' hair as he sucked down on him.

Porthos buried his face against the back of Athos' neck, breathing in the scent of him, revelling in the feeling of Athos' responsive body spread beneath him. He'd thought once that he could never have this again, and was determined to appreciate every second of it to the fullest.

Athos was giving breathy moans half-lost in the bedclothes, his face pressed side-on to the mattress. Porthos could tell he was close, and re-doubled his efforts until he felt Athos hit a shaking, devastating climax. As Athos went pliant in his arms Porthos too let himself come, spilling inside Athos' shuddering body with a hot rush of pleasure that he felt all the way to his toes.

For a moment Porthos stayed where he was, sprawled over Athos' back and still buried inside him.

"Okay?" he whispered, feeling tremors still running through Athos' body and holding him close.

Athos managed a nod, turning enough to kiss Porthos on the lips, dazed and beyond speech. Porthos cast an eye at Aramis, sitting up from D'Artagnan's lap and wiping his lips, and lowered his mouth back to Athos' ear. 

"Want some more?"

Athos caught his breath and Porthos grinned, sensing his need. 

"Aramis. Come here." He shifted round until he was propped against the headboard and manhandled Athos into place between his legs, his back to Porthos' chest. Athos' stomach was smeared with his own come, his face flushed with desire. Looking down at him, Aramis felt a jolt of lust and met Porthos' eyes questioningly.

"Fuck him," Porthos said bluntly, and Athos moaned quietly in his arms.

"Are you sure?" Aramis couldn't help asking, although Athos was already holding out his hands to him. He looked at D'Artagnan, who nodded immediately. 

"God yes. If he wants it."

The only one yet to come, Aramis needed little encouragement. He knelt between Athos' legs, and D'Artagnan and Porthos helped lift his knees until Aramis could position himself comfortably. 

Athos closed his eyes as Aramis thrust slowly inside him, savouring the ache of it, the feeling of being filled again so soon. He was wet with Porthos' release and Aramis moved inside him gently, guessing Athos would be tender from the pounding he'd already taken.

Captivated by the sheer look of amazement on his face, Aramis leaned forward to capture Athos' mouth in a lingering kiss as they thrust together, instinctively matching each other's rhythm in a slow grind. 

Porthos reached out a hand and drew D'Artagnan closer into the circle of his arm. They kissed with a warm passion, Athos lying back against their legs as Aramis steadily worked him to a second shuddering orgasm.

Weak and breathless, when Aramis finally pulled out Athos curled in on himself in utter sensory overload. Seconds later he felt arms come to rest around him in a reassuring embrace, and realised after a moment that they belonged to D'Artagnan. He raised his head to meet D'Artagnan's eyes in some trepidation, afraid of what he might see there, but D'Artagnan smiled and kissed him softly.

"Is that what you wanted," D'Artagnan whispered, stroking his face. "All this time?"

Athos gave a hesitant nod, and D'Artagnan smiled at him, nodding back and kissing him again. "I love you Athos," he breathed, cradling him against his chest. "I love you."

Athos gave a choked laugh of relief, and wrapped his arms adoringly around D'Artagnan's waist. Beside them, Aramis and Porthos were lying in a matching tangle of limbs and kisses, and the four of them gradually subsided together into a sleepy and contented sprawl.

"So - what now?" Aramis yawned after they'd recovered themselves a little.

"Personally I think D'Artagnan should fuck Porthos next," Athos declared without opening his eyes, smiling slightly as Porthos laughed uproariously.

"I thought you were asleep," Porthos grinned, rolling over onto his back and stretching out. "And all this time you've been lying there plotting." He poked Athos in the side, making him yelp.

"I didn't mean _right_ now," Aramis laughed. "Although I second that suggestion. I meant - going forwards. Do we go back to la Fère, or stay here, or what?"

They all looked at Athos, who shrugged. "Where would you like to go?"

D'Artagnan sat up. "Can't we stay in Paris for a bit? No offence, but to be honest the only thing la Fère's got going for it is you three."

Athos raised an eyebrow, but smiled. "Very well. I don't object. As long as we're together, I don't mind where we go."

D'Artagnan leaned over and kissed him in delight. "Thank you."

"I'll tell the agent we'll need the house a while longer. I only took it for a month. Longer term - I may have an idea about that." Athos wriggled down in the bed, making himself more comfortable and refusing to be drawn on what he meant. 

For now Athos was content to just enjoy the warm feeling of what they had made for themselves here, and as the others settled down around him, found he was finally able to accept this was not simply a fleeting moment, but the beginning of something even greater.

\--

On the afternoon of the following day, they found themselves in a fashionable yet quiet street in the sprawling district behind the palace. Athos had bid them all come out walking with him, whilst refusing to say why other than admitting it had to do with the housing question. 

Now, they looked up at the building Athos was indicating. It stretched up three storeys from the street, shuttered and choked in creeper. Walls stretching away to the rear separated it from the houses on either side, and hinted at sizeable grounds laid out behind.

Athos produced a key and after a short struggle managed to turn it in the rusted and obstinate lock. They followed him inside, finding themselves in a large and darkened hallway, a cobwebbed staircase curving up to the right before them.

"What do you think?" Athos murmured, after the silence had stretched out for a while. "It would need an amount of work, admittedly. And it's probably full of mice."

D'Artagnan looked at him. "It's incredible. But can we afford something this big?" 

Athos looked embarrassed. "Actually, I already own it," he confessed. "Old, empty and falling into disrepair," he murmured. "I'd have thought the resemblance was obvious."

It was Aramis who tilted his face up to look into his eyes. "Or just waiting for someone to bring it back to life perhaps?" he said softly, and kissed Athos on the mouth, making him blush.

"What are the kitchens like?" Porthos asked eagerly, and Aramis laughed.

"Always thinking with your stomach."

"Don't notice you complaining when I feed you," Porthos shot back, grinning. 

They ventured further in, eager to explore, Athos following at the back with a look of quietly pleased relief. It had been years since he'd been here, and he was glad to find it still standing. If the roof was sound, and they could make it habitable, it might serve their purpose admirably.

"So what do you think?" Athos asked when they had thoroughly explored every inch of the house and had retreated, dusty and cobwebbed, to the overgrown garden. They settled themselves along a low crumbling wall beneath a straggly apple tree and stared up at the facade.

"It will need a lot of work," Athos added dubiously. "I've not set foot in it for years. If you'd prefer, we could take something a little more habitable."

"Well I love it," D'Artagnan said without hesitation, who'd been captivated since he stepped through the door. "I think it's perfect."

"It seems an ideal size and location," Aramis agreed. 

"We can soon get it into shape," Porthos nodded enthusiastically. "We brightened up la Fère, didn't we?" He grinned at Athos. "Maybe this time you could even help."

Athos reached out a lazy hand and pushed him firmly in the middle of the chest. Taken by surprise, Porthos toppled backwards off the wall into a tangle of weeds and brambles, thrashing about and laughing too hard to be cross.

\--

With everything agreed, it remained only for plans to be set in place to return the house to a state it was possible to inhabit. Investigations proved the building's fabric sound, and cleaners, decorators and gardeners were engaged to make a start on the refurbishments. 

While these were in progress, the quartet took the opportunity to make the journey to D'Artagnan's estate at Lupiac. It was the first time he had returned home since his marriage to Athos, and D'Artagnan was both nervously anticipating their reception, and comforted by the fact all three had insisted on accompanying him.

In the event, despite a certain amount of whispered asides and disapproving looks from some older members of the community, on the whole the reaction was one of tolerantly scandalised amusement. D'Artagnan, for all his youthful excesses upon accession to his title and lands had been well enough liked, and many were pleased to see him return.

After his father's death, D'Artagnan had escaped to Paris exhibiting such a dissolute and wild temperament that few had expected to see him again, particularly given the number of duels he'd regularly become embroiled in. For him to return not only married, but into such an old and established family, and to show every intention of resuming the reins of estate management, gave comfort and order to what had been for many an uncertain few months. 

The weather was kind to them during their stay, and D'Artagnan spent many pleasant autumn days showing off his childhood haunts. Athos, Porthos and Aramis were careful to be suitably admiring and supportive, whether riding with him through the estate, visiting in the village, or hosting suppers for the local dignitaries. 

D'Artagnan's position thus consolidated, it was a relief to all of them to finally return to Paris. For propriety's sake, all four had accepted the separate chambers they had been assigned by the household, and despite a certain amount of covert nocturnal bed-hopping, it had felt a very long two months. 

Returning to Paris in the weeks before Christmas, they took possession of their new house and being able to close the doors firmly on the outside world gave them a comforting sense of sanctuary. 

All had agreed that no servants would be engaged, and that the running of the house would be shared between them as previously at la Fère.

In their absence the house had been cleaned, repaired and decorated according to the exacting list of instructions left by Aramis, many of which he immediately declared hadn't been followed nearly closely enough, and he promptly spent a extremely satisfying week haranguing various tradespeople. 

Of the plentiful bed chambers each man took one for himself, to have a personal space and place of retreat for those days or nights when he was not feeling in the mood for company. The largest room became a shared chamber, and Athos commissioned to be made an enormous bed that practically filled it from wall to wall but comfortably accommodated the four of them together.

With a group of men of such differing temperaments sharing the same space, life wasn't entirely without its arguments and tensions, but by and large all conflicts found themselves resolved without too many harsh words spoken, and any differences of opinion not forgiven by nightfall were soon settled between the sheets.

Christmas, when it arrived, was a festive affair. Athos had been accustomed to ignoring it completely, while Aramis surprised everyone by showing an inclination to attend every church service going, but when Porthos mentioned in passing that he'd never before been in a position to enjoy the frivolous side of the season, and D'Artagnan had admitted quietly that it would be his first Christmas without his family, suddenly everyone pulled together to make it a ridiculously lavish affair. No surface lacked a bowl of nuts or sweetmeats, and no beam lacked some decorative wreath hanging from it, wrapped around it or nailed to it, to the extent that Athos was still finding cloves in his shoes in March, and complaining about it accordingly.

\--

Life in Paris proved agreeable for all of them, now that they had each other. Athos and D’Artagnan put in occasional appearances at Court, as few as they could get away with whilst keeping the King happy and retaining his goodwill. The Cardinal restrained himself to silent glowering upon these occasions, and of Milady there had never been further word nor sign.

Aramis busied himself with overseeing the accounts and management of both the country estates, and took it upon himself to drum the basics into D’Artagnan too. Porthos, for his part, mostly took over the running of the house itself. He had continued his lessons with Aramis, and latterly also with Athos, and developed a thirst for reading everything he could get his hands on.

Despite this, and their efforts to include him, Athos sensed that at times Porthos felt a little left out of things. For himself, Athos was entirely content to leave the running of business matters to Aramis and D'Artagnan, but he felt Porthos was frustrated by his inability to contribute in the same way. 

Consequently, when one morning he found Porthos wistfully watching Aramis working on a pile of accounts ledgers, a task that as far as Athos was concerned was as dry as dust and to be avoided at all costs, he slipped an arm though his and begged his company. 

"I need your advice," Athos told him, helping Porthos on with his outdoor coat despite his protests and guiding him out of the house. "I'm thinking of buying another horse, and your eye is quite the equal to mine."

After a pleasant afternoon spent amidst the horse traders they walked unhurriedly home, Porthos in much higher spirits than he had been earlier. They were both deep in lively discussion over which if any of the specimens presented Athos should purchase, when a young boy of no more than nine years old barged his way between them. Athos, thinking nothing of it barring mild irritation at being jostled, was surprised when Porthos reached out and grabbed the boy by the scruff of his shirt.

"Oi! Give it back."

"Give what back?" The boy looked up from a face both dirty and defiant, took in Porthos' size and thunderous expression, plus the fact Athos was wearing a sword, and visibly gulped. Conceding defeat with bad grace, he handed something reluctantly to Porthos. Porthos in turn passed it to Athos, who was astonished to discover it was his money pouch.

"I never even felt it go!" 

"He was sloppy," Porthos growled. "Looked back as he lifted it." He shook the boy by the collar, although not roughly. "Get off with you. And if I catch you stealing from me or mine again, next time I'll wallop you." Porthos let the boy go and he immediately fled, turning to deliver a rude hand gesture once he was at a safe distance.

Athos gave a quiet laugh. "Sloppy?" he echoed. "Is that a touch of professional pride I detect there?"

Porthos looked embarrassed, and Athos linked his arm companionably through his, to show he was only teasing.

"That was me, once," Porthos admitted. "Stealing to eat, most of 'em." He sighed. "Not much of a life." Porthos stole a sideways glance at Athos, expecting to see only the usual disgust and condemnation people showed with regards such creatures. Athos though, merely patted his arm and nodded understanding.

"You're living proof that's possible to escape such a life," Athos murmured. "Take comfort in that."

Porthos looked away. "Comfort? Or guilt?" He sighed, and Athos pressed his arm tighter, reassuringly.

"Bettering yourself is hardly a betrayal," Athos told him firmly. "And I will not have it otherwise." He spied the same child, still watching them warily from the mouth of an alley as they passed, and tossed him a coin which he snatched from the air and swiftly made vanish about his person.

"Soft touch, you are," Porthos muttered, but he was smiling.

Over the next few days Athos quietly considered a few things, and after a little discreet consultation with the others came to a decision.

"Porthos. Do you have a minute? There's something I'd like your opinion on."

Porthos looked up questioningly but Athos had already disappeared. He exchanged a glance with Aramis, who shrugged, but when Porthos moved to follow Athos down the passage, he found that both Aramis and D'Artagnan were trailing along behind him.

Athos had fetched up in the dining room. It was a good sized chamber, with plenty of light and a large stout oak table, but despite its advantages they found they rarely used it, preferring to eat in the cosy kitchen.

"I've been thinking. It seems a shame to let such a good room go to waste," Athos declared, "and I have a scheme in mind for its use. There are those in this world - in this city - who would benefit from such advantages in education as might be passed on by a keen mind and willing spirit. A basic grasp of reading and writing could make the difference between a life of thievery and one of honest employment."

"Or at least the ability to pull off a better class of fraud," put in Aramis, and Athos frowned at him.

"In short, I was thinking it would make a good schoolroom. For those destitute boys - and girls, perhaps - that would not otherwise have access to such a thing. What do you think?"

"That's an amazingly generous thought," agreed Porthos, oblivious to the looks passing between the three of them. "Who did you have in mind to run such a thing?"

They all looked at him, and he finally caught on, shocked. "What - not me?"

"I can think of no-one better suited, or more patient," Athos murmured. "Besides, they would be likely too wary of someone like me," he added. "You seemed the perfect candidate." He gave a slight smile. "What do you say? Will you do it?"

Porthos looked round at them, feeling choked. "Well it seems to be a done deal already," he said gruffly, to disguise the tightness in his throat. "What do I know about teaching?"

"It would be a chore, I know, and tax you unmercifully," Athos told him lightly, guessing the truth behind Porthos' ungracious muttering. Porthos caught the glint in his eye and relaxed a fraction, thankful once again that Athos understood him so well.

"You may not have teaching experience, but you have learning experience," D'Artagnan put in with a smile. "Thinking back to some of my tutors, I can't help feeling that sympathy would be a lot more valuable."

"And we're all here, if you need help," Aramis added. "Nobody's going to abandon you to something you can't deal with."

"You wouldn't object to a horde of vagabond kids in your house?" Porthos asked Athos dubiously, immediately seeing problems. 

"Our house," Athos corrected gently. "And I have full confidence in your ability to keep them under control." He smiled. "Perhaps one or two would even be glad of a meal once in a while."

"Athos." Porthos couldn't get any more words out, but pulled Athos into his arms and kissed him hard. Aramis and D'Artagnan clustered round and Porthos kissed them too, trying to hug everyone at once.

"Bloody conspiracists," he grumbled, as they laughed together. "Set me right up, haven't you."

"Can you forgive us?" Aramis smiled, his fingers finding their way under Porthos' shirt to trail across the small of his back.

"Good thing you're pretty," Porthos told him, face cracking into a smile. 

To celebrate, they opened a bottle of wine and took it out into the garden to discuss and plan for what would be needed. It was early spring, and while the air still had bite to it, the setting sun kindled orange flame in the bare branches of the apple tree above their heads. To the east, the first stars were visible against the darkening sky, and Athos raised his glass to them in silent salute.

"Who are you toasting?" D'Artagnan smiled, leaning back against Porthos in search of warmth.

"The stars," Athos smiled. "And whatever alignment of the heavens, or twist of fate, or whim of God it was that saw fit to bring us together."

"I'll drink to that," Porthos declared, draining his glass in one swallow and promptly holding it out for more. 

"I thought it was the whim of King Louis?" Aramis teased, pouring more wine for everyone. "Or the Cardinal."

"If only he could see us now." D'Artagnan raised his glass as well. "He'd hate this."

The others laughed, and joined the toast. 

"To us," Porthos declared. "May no-one put us asunder."

They drank then, and exchanged fond kisses and heartfelt promises with only the emerging stars of the new year to bear witness. 

Afterwards, they talked late into the night, candles wedged into cracks of the old wall for light, and arms around each other for warmth. 

Then, when the chill became too much they gathered their things and retreated gladly to bed, where they warmed each other all over again until sleep finally overtook them, locked in each other's arms, and at peace with the world.

\--

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from 'The Starry Rubric' by Alexander Cummins.


End file.
